Wound Up Overdrive
by New Konoiche
Summary: It has been almost two years since Regina was hit by a bus and everyone is amazed by her recovery. But, as she nears the end of her freshmen year at college, she realizes she isn't as "healed" as she thought. Meanwhile, Gretchen deals with her own problems in adjusting to college after she bites off a little more than she can chew. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Nightmares

Chapter One: Nightmares

Regina George was incredibly lucky. This is what everyone kept telling her anyway: her mother, her orthopedic surgeon, her physical therapist, hell, even the admissions department at Oberlin. Of course, she would have known it anyway even if none of them had said anything. She had read enough gruesome stories online to realize that most people who get hit by busses moving at 30 MPH are screwed for life. She could have easily gotten paralyzed from the neck down. She could have been so permanently brain-damaged that she was worse off than the Special Ed kids in high school that everyone pretended not to be creeped out by. Or she could have been brain dead and in a coma with her family fighting over whether or not to take her off life support like that Terri Shiavo woman from the news a couple years ago (although honestly, Regina had no idea what her parents would have done in this situation – they were both such deadbeat losers that they would probably just pay their lawyer to figure it out and then maybe buy Kylie a pony to make her feel better about having a dead sister.)

People (better people, Regina couldn't help but thinking) died from getting hit by vehicles every day. The statistics were astounding. For the first couple of months after she returned from the hospital, she had been practically addicted to browsing through awful pictures on the internet – twisted spines and skulls cracked open, fleshy pink brains exposed – until her dad threatened to take her computer away and send her to therapy. She read a blog about a woman involved in a hit-in-run, (a very nice woman, too, Regina noted – one who took in stray dogs and donated most of her time and money to a local rest home), who had to relearn how to brush her teeth and use a spoon and memorize the alphabet. Yet, somehow Regina had gotten away with a minor concussion, several broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a punctured lung and a fractured spine. Certainly, this hadn't been easy. Her neck still ached from time to time, but mostly, no one would have been able to guess that she had been hit by a bus less than two years ago. Even her physical therapist was impressed by her rapid recovery.

Regina was also well aware that she could have been much worse off psychologically. Hell, she could have a full-blown panic attack every time she saw a school bus instead of feeling mildly unsettled by them. So, yes, she was lucky. If someone had told her in advance that her only side effect to being hit by a two-ton vehicle would be frequent nightmares, she would have easily shrugged it off. Just throw a couple of Ambien at them and that's that. In the grand scheme of things, a couple of nightmares were a tiny, tiny price to pay for a fully functional brain and body. And, not to mention, for her life. She had thought the nightmares were a thing of the past, anyway.

And yet, here she was again: standing in the middle of the empty street in front of the high school. It had started out as a nice, normal dream, in which she was teaching swim lessons to a group of baby bunnies and ducklings. Then, without any warning, the scene had changed and she was back to that horrible place. Unlike that fateful day junior year, however, Regina was well-aware of what was about to happen. As soon as she saw the school in front of her and felt the overly bright sun scorch her skin, an icy cold sense of dread clenched her heart and lungs so that she couldn't breathe. She tried to move, but her legs felt numb and as heavy as concrete. "Move!" she thought desperately, but her legs wouldn't cooperate and the ground suddenly seemed uneven, like quicksand mixed with wet cement and marshmallow fluff. Suddenly the bus, this time a nauseatingly neon shade of yellow, came barreling toward her. She tried to shut her eyes, but her eyelids seemed just as paralyzed as the rest of her body.

Even though it was just a dream, pain erupted through her. She heard the sickening snap and crackle of bone and felt her vital organs tear apart. Regina woke with a start, her arm bent painfully underneath her and her face drenched with icy sweat and hot tears – not a pleasant combination. Trying desperately to catch her breath, she glanced at the digital clock next to her. 7:00. It was still dark out but Writing 101 started in two hours. Regina's roommate, Gretchen, was still fast asleep, breathing quietly through her nose and lying on her back, her hands folded in front of her like a Disney Princess. When they first started rooming together, Regina had been surprised and a bit jealous about Gretchen's sleeping habits. She knew she looked nowhere near as pretty asleep, especially since she often awoke in such uncomfortable positions. In a way it made sense, though. It seemed Gretchen was "on" 24/7, so why shouldn't this extend to her REM cycles?

At first, Regina had been slightly disappointed about living with someone she had known since elementary school, even if she and Gretchen had rarely spoken since the Plastics broke up after junior year. But now, she found it kind of a relief. She wasn't sure she would even have been able to deal with living with a complete stranger on top of everything else. College was supposed to be Regina's time to start over. No one here (other than Gretchen, of course) knew that she used to be the Queen Bitch Plastic, the girl responsible for "personally victimizing" (as Mrs. Norbury so eloquently put it) every other girl at school. But trying to make a fresh start had been weirdly exhausting and she often felt sapped of energy by the end of her 4:00 class. Because if she wasn't the Queen Bee, then who WAS she?

Gretchen was mostly having the time of her life at Oberlin. She had roughly fifty new best friends (many of whom were often squeezed into their already tiny dorm room) and was part of everything from Ultimate Frisbee to Anime Club to College Democrats to Belly Dancing. In a way, Regina had to admit, this kind of made sense. After all, Gretchen was sort of like a slab of tofu – she could easily adjust her personality and interests to any situation and fit into any group, so long as she kowtowed to whoever was in charge like a lost puppy.

Sadly, Regina was nowhere near as lucky. It was nearing November and she was beginning to realize with a mounting sense of panic that she hadn't really made a single friend at Oberlin. During the beginning of the semester, she had tried to make conversation with people in her classes and at Lacrosse practice, but she had always come across so stilted and awkward that she worried she sounded borderline autistic. Now, she mostly kept her mouth shut in class and tried to be as innocuous and blandly nice as she could at Lacrosse. Her grades were good, even though none of her teachers fawned over her the way they had in high school – and in fact, most of them probably didn't even know her name. Still, she felt like the biggest failure in the history of Oberlin College. No, the biggest failure in the history of the world. Regina was almost positive that if that woman who had to relearn her ABCs had somehow gotten the chance to study at Oberlin, she as sure as hell would make the most of it.


	2. Sleep Deprivation

Chapter Two: Sleep Deprivation

Gretchen was eleven minutes late for Animal Rights at Oberlin. She hated being late even in the best of circumstances, but especially now, since she hadn't been to a meeting in two weeks. Stomach clenched and heart pounding, she raced down the hall of the Architecture Building and paused at the drinking fountain to wipe the sweat from her forehead, check her hair and make-up in the dirty metal reflection of the fountain and remove her fluffy, pink coat. She would have taken a second to quench her thirst as her tongue and throat were completely dry, but she knew Naomi, the President of Animal Rights at Oberlin, was strict about tardiness. Well, strict about everything, really, which was probably why Gretchen was feeling vaguely woozy. Although she was probably slightly over-heated, too. It had been uncharacteristically warm for late October, but Gretchen had really wanted Mike from Modernist Poetry to notice her amazingly stylish pink jacket. She hadn't had time to email Naomi about her past absences (or, for that matter, to even look over her emails at all, which was very, VERY unlike her), but she hoped she would get to apologize in person.

As soon as she arrived at Room 183, however, Gretchen noticed Naomi standing outside the door, her arms folded across her chest.

"Hey!" Gretchen said breathlessly. "I'm really, really sorry I'm late! I had to go to this totally stupid study session for Rainforest Biology, which is, like, totally all the way across campus. So dumb. The test isn't until next Friday anyway, but, like Professor Reid didn't think any of us were getting the concept about topography – whatever that is." Naomi narrowed her eyes and didn't respond. Gretchen bit her lower lip. Regina had told her multiple times that she had the habit of talking even more than usual when she was nervous (not to mention, the habit of repeating words like "like" and "totally"). She remembered that she was trying to work on this. "Sorry," she said again, smiling meekly. "Got here as fast as I could."

"Where the hell were you last week?" Naomi asked.

"Last week?" Then, suddenly, Gretchen remembered. A wave of prickly heat swept over her and her cheeks grew hot. "Oh my God," she muttered.

"You were supposed to drive us out to the animal shelter." Naomi said coldly. "They really needed us to help set up for their Halloween Benefit."

"Shit," Gretchen said quietly. "I-I'm sorry. I forgot."

Naomi shook her head. "You volunteered to be the driver," she said and Gretchen could only nod sheepishly – of course she remembered this. She had been very eager to help, mostly because she had always gotten the vague idea that Naomi didn't like her. "You can't just promise something like that and then not do it! I had to use our club's money to pay for a taxi and because we were late, the benefit had already been set up."

"I…I could pay you back?" Gretchen said, not meaning to phrase it as a question. "I'm sorry. This is really, really not like me." And it wasn't. She was nothing if not reliable. But sleep deprivation does strange things to people and Gretchen had been so busy with all her clubs and classes that she had only gotten a few hours this week. On the plus side, at least she hadn't forgotten to eat like she had for an entire week at the end of September, getting by on nothing but black coffee and cherry tic-tacs until she passed-out cold in Rainforest Biology and then had to get IV fluids (not fun, considering Gretchen had always hated needles).

But what HAD she been doing last week that was so damn important? "I was doing something else for one of my classes," she said vaguely, not so much to give Naomi and excuse, but more to try to remind herself. Then, suddenly, it came to her. Japanese class. "I…um…I was helping someone in my Japanese class who isn't getting it." This wasn't exactly true, but it wasn't entirely a lie, either. The truth was, Gretchen was the one struggling with Japanese and she had been with her tutor, Tadashi, a handsome senior who seemed more than a little tired of her.

Naomi continued glaring and shook her head. Gretchen wished she would say something – anything, really. Silence made her nervous. And why shouldn't it? Gretchen had noted long ago that one of the best ways to intimidate someone is to say nothing. She herself had, of course, never been able to master this tactic. As Naomi studied her, Gretchen felt sharp tears well up at the back of her eyes and throat and desperately looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. No, no, no, she was NOT going to cry in front of Naomi.

"I-um…" she stammered her voice disappointingly shaky. "I should probably go. I guess. I'm sorry." She turned quickly so that Naomi wouldn't see her quivering lip. Gretchen despised crying in front of people – mostly because she wasn't a very pretty crier. Not in the slightest.

"Hey," Naomi said, her voice softening considerably. "C'mon, don't cry. It was a mistake. It could happen to anyone. Just…make sure it doesn't happen again, okay? Next time email me if you can't keep your promises."

Gretchen could only nod, looking down at the floor miserably. Naomi was right. It was just a mistake and it COULD happen to anyone. But how had this happened to her? Just sleep deprivation? Maybe. But could "just sleep deprivation" explain why she was in danger of failing Japanese 101 even with Tadashi's help? Or why she had overslept and missed Scuba Diving class two weeks in a row? Or why she hadn't started her Buffy the Vampire Slayer paper defending Xander even though it was due next week? Or why she had torn up her quiz for Women's Studies that had "See me" written in large red letters and cried in the bathroom for ten whole minutes (and, as if this doesn't already go without saying, neglected to check in with the professor)? Or why everyone in every single one of her various activities talked excessively about going to clubs and parties that they had not bothered to invite her to? Sure, she had a busy schedule, but so did a lot of other people. The truth was she was failing spectacularly at everything. And you don't fail spectacularly at everything unless you are a spectacular failure.


	3. Bruises

Chapter Three: Bruises

Regina didn't normally go for "nice guys." Sure, she had been with bland, white-bread Aaron Samuels in high school, but that was more of an image thing than anything. She had never cared that much about him and if she was honest, she knew he probably didn't like her that much either. If she had her way, she would definitely describe her type as the beyond cliché "bad boy." But there was something about her T.A for Writing 101, a straight-laced self-described "boy scout" named Drew (just Drew – he had refused to give them his last name – probably in an effort to seem like "one of them" despite the fact that he already had an undergraduate degree and they were a bunch of loser freshmen in a core class that no one actually wanted to take) that made her go all mushy. She realized there was no discernable reason for her to like him as much as she did - he really was pretty standardly handsome and his personality was definitely nothing to write home about. She concluded it was hormones. And this pissed her off. Writing 101 was hard enough as it was.

But even though she had been very flirtatious in high school, she could hardly speak more than a few sentences to Drew. It probably didn't help that Drew clearly didn't like her. Well, to be more accurate, he did like her, but he was also very disappointed with her. He had called her into his "office" early in the semester to discuss her personal essay (really, it was just the far corner of the Liberal Arts lounge because T.A's didn't have their own offices at Oberlin – and also got paid crap, Regina had heard) and being completely naïve, she actually came in to see him. Drew, in typical white bread/nice guy/boy scout fashion, was a perfect gentleman about it. "I don't want to hurt your feelings," he said, which Regina had always thought was one of the stupidest phrases in existence. "Because, well, your writing is really, really good. Probably the best in the class. The problem is, it's so impersonal. This is a personal essay. But, I really didn't get a sense of who you are."

She wanted to tell him that she had only been the most important and well-known and confidant person at her high school: the girl who everyone lined up to be best friends with, the girl even the teachers were jealous of, the queen of the most influential group on campus. But then, she also wanted to tell him that she had been easily the most hated person at her school: the girl responsible for personally victimizing the entire female student body, the ruiner of various people's lives, the girl who even teachers were afraid of. But she couldn't say any of this because for one thing, she couldn't manage to speak through the tears that had welled up at the back of her throat and for another, she somehow wasn't that girl anymore. She was trying to be nice, to start over, to somehow stand out and blend in at the same time. And somehow, in the process, she had become nothing. How had she become so hopelessly lost? "How am I supposed to do that?" she had asked Drew, after a seemingly endless silence.

"Well, you seem smart," he said. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. Just, I'd like to see more from you."

Ever since then, he had written the same exact thing on each of her papers, regardless of the subject matter: "well written, but too impersonal. SEE ME." She did not see him. And she was beginning to hate him despite her hormones insistence that she had a crush. How was she supposed to talk about the things that mattered – the things that haunted her every night and day since she had arrived on campus – when she couldn't even think about them? Regina didn't even bother to look at Drew's comments this time. As soon as class was over, she hurried out of the building to lacrosse practice.

If Regina was honest, she really only felt like herself – or really alive at all, for that matter - when she played lacrosse. It was the only thing she was still good at and the only place she felt in charge. Sure, before and after practice was awkward as hell, but once she was on the field, everything else in the world disappeared and her attention narrowed. Today, she raced forward and swooped the ball away from her opponent, team captain Marianella, who Regina generally considered one of the more likable people on her lacrosse team. A heavy-set Puerto Rican junior, Marianella was the kind of person who Regina probably wouldn't have noticed much in high school. She was vaguely friendly, but usually prickly, cool and aloof – a woman of very few words. Although she never invited Regina to hang out with her outside of practice, she did occasionally talk to her – although never about anything remotely important. This was more than Regina could say about the rest of the team. In fact, Regina couldn't shake the feeling that most of her team actively disliked her. It could have been her imagination, of course, but then again, she hadn't exactly done anything to endear herself to the team.

Marianella swerved to regain control of the ball and Regina turned quickly to block her. Then suddenly, with a loud thwack, something sharp and heavy slammed into Regina right below her ribcage. The pain lanced through her like lightning and the ground suddenly shifted beneath her like waves. She sank to her knees.

"Oh my GOD!" Marianella panted. "Oh, shit! I'm so sorry." She dropped her own lacrosse stick and knelt down next to Regina. "Are you okay?"

Regina tried to take in a breath, but felt like her lungs were filled with shards of glass and needles. A loud whistle suddenly pierced the air.

"What happened?" shouted their coach, Mrs. Stein, rushing toward them.

"I-I hit her with my stick," Marianella stammered. "It was an accident."

"Of course it was an accident," the coach agreed. "You okay, Regina?" she asked, bending down to get a closer look.

"N-no!" Regina said. "I can't breathe."

By now, the whole team had gathered around them. "Girls!" Mrs. Stein shouted. "Back off! You're okay," she said lightly. "Probably got the wind knocked out of you, is all." But somehow Regina didn't think so.

"I'm sorry," Marianella said again, timidly putting her hand on Regina's shoulder.

"DON'T!" Regina shouted and Marianella flinched. "Leave me alone! You bitch! You totally did that on purpose!"

"No! I really, really didn't mean to! I was just-" Marianella started to say.

"Yes, Regina, I'm sure it was just a mistake," said Mrs. Stein, who as far as Regina was concerned, hadn't been paying attention at all.

"No it wasn't! Whose side are you on?" Regina said shrilly. She glared at Mrs. Stein's overly calm face and suddenly everything blurred and spun together. She thought she heard the nauseating screech of tires; saw the bright white headlights; felt metal tear through her flesh.

"Regina! Hey!" She suddenly felt someone shaking her and looked up at Mrs. Stein, who was still surrounded by swirling black splotches. "Sweetie, do you need to see the doctor?"

Regina shook her head quickly. "No, I'm fine. I just-" she stood up quickly and nearly fell back down again.

Mrs. Stein caught her by the arm. "Why don't you sit out for the rest of practice?" she asked. "I'll get you some ice."

Nearly ten minutes later, Regina had still not managed to regain her breath. The pain in her ribs had waned to a dull ache, but she still felt shaky and lightheaded. By now her ice pack was half-way melted and she really wanted to get some more, but she was afraid that if she stood up, she would throw up or faint or maybe both.

From the field, Regina noticed Marianella whispering and giggling in a very un-Marianella-like manner with Emily, one of the Defense Guards and she knew without a doubt that they were talking about her. But that couldn't have been right. Marianella wasn't a gossip and she definitely wasn't a bitch. Both Marianella and Emily looked over at Regina furtively, realized she was looking and then dropped their eyes, snickering into their hands. Yep, that sealed it. They absolutely had been laughing at her. Regina's heart tightened and she grinded her teeth together. Emily and Marianella had no idea what she was going through. How dare they judge her? The nice thing about anger is that it makes you forget about your other pain. Or at least this was true for Regina at the moment. Her heart was still hammering and she was still short of breath, but the ache in her side and her dizziness had all but disappeared.

Regina hoped against all hope that she would have the room to herself when she got back to her dorm. She was planning on having a full-blown stress relief session in which she bit pencils in half, punched all of Gretchen's stuffed animals (Regina herself didn't have any and frankly, she thought it was a little embarrassing that Gretchen did) and screamed into her pillow until her throat was raw. Then, she planned on taking the last of the heavy-duty Oxycodone pills her physical therapist had prescribed (for emergencies only) and sleeping until morning. If she really did have re-broken ribs and a re-punctured lung, she guessed it could wait until tomorrow.

Unfortunately, when Regina arrived back home, Gretchen and a few of her Japanese friends from International Club were deeply engrossed in some weird anime movie about a girl who was half fish and half human. Regina slammed the door behind her and Gretchen looked up, alarmed. She quickly scurried to her feet. "Oh my God. Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly.

Regina slammed her backpack on the floor and the contents spilled in all directions. "No!" she said sharply. "No, I'm really not okay! Does it look like I'm okay to you?"

Gretchen glanced at her friends (who Regina seemed to remember were named Yuriko and Ami – but those could have very well been the names of different besties of Gretchen's) and turned the TV to mute. "I think maybe you guys should go," she said. "I'll meet up with you for Kawaii Club later." The girls nodded, stood up and hurried out of the room without looking at Regina. What was "Kawaii Club" supposed to be? Regina wondered briefly. She seemed to recall Gretchen saying "Kawaii" was the Japanese word for "cute." So… "Cute Club?" That was a new one. Regina suddenly felt more than a little exhausted with Gretchen's retarded schedule.

"What happened?" Gretchen asked.

Regina flopped down on her bed and stared at the wall. "Nothing," she mumbled. "Just leave me alone, okay?"

"No way!" said Gretchen. "Did something happen? You look terrible! I mean, no offense. Not like terrible terrible. I mean, you never look terrible. Obviously. Just like…you look like totally, super freaked out, I guess." She paused for a second. "Oh my GOD!" she said, her voice suddenly rising at least two octaves. "Did someone…I mean, like…you weren't-"

Regina and Gretchen's floor had recently had an assembly about campus rape and Gretchen had been on edge ever since. "Oh my God, Gretchen! Of course not! Why would you even think that? It's the middle of the day. No. I just got hit in the ribs at practice. I'm fine."

"Oh," said Gretchen, returning to normal (although still loud) volume. "Are you okay?"

Regina was pretty sure Gretchen had already asked this. She just shrugged.

"Do you want anything? Ice? Aspirin? One of my Sonatas? Or do you think we should maybe call the school nurse? I mean, it was the same side with your broken ribs, wasn't it? You don't think they're broken again, do you?" She perched on the edge of the bed and Regina wanted to scream.

Instead, she said as calmly as she could: "don't you some cute little Japanese club meeting to go to?"

Gretchen bristled a little at this. "It's not 'cute,'" she said. "And, no, I don't have to go."

Lying on her side, Regina realized that the pain was beginning to return – not dull as it had been at practice, but sharp like rusty metal. "Go away!" she shouted, covering her head with a pillow.

Gretchen took a step back. "Jesus!" she snapped. "You don't have to be a bitch about it! Maybe this is why you haven't made any friends here!"

Regina was shocked for a moment. She lay still and didn't say a word. After all, she knew very well that the best way to get to Gretchen was by "being quiet" at her. Soon, Regina knew Gretchen would become uncomfortable with the silence and apologize. But she didn't.

"Look, are you really hurt? Like seriously bad?" Gretchen asked. "Do you want to go to the nurse?"

"NO!" Regina snapped.

Gretchen rolled her eyes dramatically and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.


	4. Scar Tissue

Chapter Four: Scar Tissue

Gretchen almost hated to admit it, but her initial reaction to getting her roommate assignment for Oberlin had been one of unadulterated horror. She thought at first that it had to be a mistake. The housing office must have meant a different Regina George. Regina hadn't even mentioned that she was applying to Oberlin, although, it wasn't like Gretchen talked to her much anymore. But then, why would the two completely different Regina Georges have the same exact email address that Gretchen had memorized long ago – QueenRegina999 ? So, Gretchen concluded it must have been some sort of mistake. And a really weird one at that. She definitely hadn't requested Regina as a roommate and couldn't imagine why Regina would have chosen her (after all, they weren't even officially friends anymore – which still seemed weird to Gretchen after years of sleepovers and note passing).

But regardless of how much Regina seemed to have changed since Junior Year, Gretchen was in no way looking forward to rooming with someone who, in all honestly, had made much of her middle and high school career a huge, miserable pain. She wanted to forget all about high school – even if parts of it had actually been undeniably pretty awesome. And how the hell was she supposed to forget about high school when probably the only other person from North Shore High was her roommate?

Gretchen's mother completely missed why the rooming situation was the worst possible thing.

"Oh, how nice! That should be fun! I haven't seen Regina around for the longest time. What is she up to these days?"

"How nice?!" Gretchen repeated shrilly, near tears. "How is that NICE? This is totally the worst possible thing ever! This sucks!"

So Gretchen wrote a long email to the housing services, requesting that they change her room assignment ASAP. After she had sent it, Gretchen checked her inbox at least twenty times a day, until finally, in mid-August, the housing director responded with: "Dear Ms. Wieners, I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience your room assignment has caused. Unfortunately, this is a very busy time of year and we still have several students who need to be placed. Therefore, we will not be able to switch room assignments until the semester begins. However, if both you and Ms. George decide it isn't working out, don't hesitate to contact us. Hope you have a wonderful rest of the summer!"

Yeah, of course I'll have a wonderful rest of the summer, Gretchen thought bitterly.

But then, during the last week of August, something rather strange happened. Gretchen's family had invited the Georges for dinner to celebrate the end of their daughters' childhood (and, as far as Gretchen was concerned, the end of the world – or at the very least, the end of her life) and Regina had seemed oddly subdued – even vulnerable - her eyes sad and faraway. She picked at her chicken and stirred her mashed potatoes around, all the while avoiding eye contact and mumbling only a few words. Gretchen couldn't help feeling oddly disconcerted. Had Regina recently started some new medication that wiped away her personality or something?

Gretchen herself, meanwhile, had gone as far out of her way to be bubbly and excited as she ever had. And, really, she couldn't deny that she was excited about school for the most part. As long as she could stay out of Regina's way and avoid being the same loser who let everyone (and by "everyone," she mostly meant Regina) push her around, she figured it would have to work out. After all, she was going to be taking a class on Scuba Diving! And Japanese! And Glass Blowing! And hell, even a class in Buffy the Vampire Slayer! How fetch was that?

"I'm really glad I'm not going to be rooming with a stranger," Regina said at some point during the night and her voice was so shaken and vulnerable that Gretchen instantly felt awful for trying to avoid her.

"Yeah, me too," Gretchen said after a while, smiling brightly. Regina smiled back, but still looked somber.

During most of the early semester, Gretchen rarely even saw Regina. She was, though not entirely by choice, one of those roommates who only used the dorm for storage and for sleep – although later in the semester, she realized that Regina spent most her time in the library and took the opportunity to invite people over. When she did see Regina, however, she seemed perfectly friendly and normal – or at least as friendly and normal as a reformed mean girl can expect to be. Gretchen had to admit that she had never been more afraid of Regina – even in middle school. Because at least that Regina was up front about her meanness. This new version, Regina 2.0, was like a ticking time bomb and Gretchen really didn't want to be around if or when she finally exploded.

It wasn't until Homecoming weekend that Gretchen realized how tragic Regina's social life had somehow become. Gretchen had invited her to a party with a few artsy friends from Glass Blowing and Art Club (which she had only done after discovering – to her surprise – that Regina didn't have plans). Half-way through a round of Jell-O Shooters, Gretchen realized that Regina was missing. She found her outside, alone, looking at the stars and crying silently.

When she saw Gretchen timidly approach her, Regina didn't even bother wiping her eyes – or even her nose, for that matter.

"Um, what's the matter?" Gretchen had asked as delicately as she could.

"People don't like me here, do they?" Regina said. Her voice sounded calm and collected, a little wistful, but out-of-sync with her sobbing.

"Of course they do!" Gretchen said quickly, proving that, in spite of everything, she was still the same "Yes Girl" she was in high school.

"No, they don't. But that's okay. I wouldn't like me, either."

"O-M-G, they probably just don't know you! That's all!" Gretchen said.

Regina sighed heavily and stared ahead, her eyes blank. "Thanks, Gretchen," she said after a while. "Sorry I'm being such a bummer tonight. I'm really no fun at all anymore, am I?"

Gretchen couldn't really deny that. Regina had only said a few sentences to Gretchen's art club friends all night, although Gretchen supposed they probably weren't Regina's type. Then again, she reasoned, were they really her type either? Gretchen didn't get a lot of time to stop and think about it, but she was starting to think she didn't really have a "type." Yeah, she was in at least eight different groups, but there's a huge difference between being in a group and belonging to one.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Gretchen figured she should say something. She felt bad for Regina, even if she was bringing it on herself by acting all boring and antisocial. And besides, didn't she, in some ways, kind of deserve it? Gretchen had never been big on karma, but maybe this was the price Regina had to pay for being such an epic bitch all throughout elementary-high school (although, if it was a case of karmic retribution, wasn't getting hit by a bus enough?)

"You know, Regina," Gretchen said and paused. "Um…if you ever want to talk or anything, like, I'm totally here for you."

"Thanks, Gretch," Regina said, looking over and smiling sadly. "You're a good friend."

Yeah, Gretchen thought guiltily. A good friend who is terrified of you. A good friend who really only said that because there wasn't anything else to say. A good friend who will probably avoid you for the rest of the semester…

And now, it seemed like the Regina of old had finally resurfaced. Now that Gretchen's anger had subsided, she was terrified. After all, she had slammed the door and huffed off – something she would never consider doing in high school. What would Regina say when she got back? In fifth grade, before Karen had joined the group, Gretchen had (sort of) talked back to Regina about not wanting to buy Regina and Janis candy with her own lunch money. Regina, (along with Janis, who Gretchen always saw as a co-Alpha, rather than a Beta), struck back by changing their made-up Four Square rules when Gretchen was absent from school and then made her feel completely nuts for not understanding. Of course, Gretchen was well aware that Regina didn't have the same kind of social power here (or, to be honest, any power at all), but she still felt a familiar sense of dread well up in her stomach at the thought of facing her angry roommate.

Gretchen's phone buzzed sharply, scaring her out of her reverie. "Message from Simon," her IPhone said. Gretchen groaned inwardly. She didn't necessarily dislike Simon, the junior who was her lab partner in Rainforest Biology, but he did almost always seem to have tuna fish stuck in his braces and usually smelled like he had eaten a pure garlic sandwich. He also had an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles every fifteen minutes.

But the real problem Gretchen had with Simon was that the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to her (more so than when she messed everything up at the holiday pageant or when Karen told everyone about how she had diarrhea at Barns and Noble or even when Grandma Olga sent her pink bunny pajamas and her parents made her put them on for the Christmas party) had happened in front of Simon and he refused to let her forget about it.

The embarrassing thing was, of course, when she fainted from hunger during the lab portion of class. Rainforest Biology only met on Wednesday, but it was an extremely hectic and strenuous class. Had Gretchen known about the schedule ahead of time, she would have never bothered to even consider thinking about taking it. The lecture half of the class went from 3:30 to 5:30 with the lab following directly after until 8:00. Professor Reid usually gave the class breaks to get food and/or coffee and Gretchen had really meant to get something from the cafeteria, but she needed to talk to Professor Reid about why she hadn't finished last week's lab and by the time he was finished explaining the extra credit, the cafeteria had already closed and, since she only had a debit card, the vending machine was out of the question, too. She wasn't that hungry, anyway, even though she was pretty sure she hadn't had lunch or breakfast that day either.

She had felt mildly okay for the lecture half of class, but once Professor Reid handed them their pickled piranhas for dissection, something began to feel very off. The smell of formaldehyde, garlic and Simon's body odor seemed amped-up and people's voices were slightly out-of-sync with their mouth movements –like on a badly rendered YouTube video. She was dizzy, but not in the spinning, drunk kind of way she was at least semi-used to. It was more the "lightheaded" kind of dizziness, except that her whole body felt light, hollow, weak, empty – like she wasn't all the way there.

"We should name our fish," Simon had been saying. "How about Herbert? Herbert alright with you?"

"Huh? Um, sure," Gretchen said, but her voice sounded strangely echoed. At some point, while Simon was making "Herbert" swim around (because at age 20, he was apparently still a preschooler), she raised her trembling hand, which made her whole arm sore from the effort. "Um, Professor Reid?" she said so quietly and shakily that she was surprised he even heard her.

"Yeah, Gretchen," said Professor Reid. "What can I do for ya?"

"Um, I don't feel so great," Gretchen was pretty sure she said.

"No? What do you mean 'not so great?'" the professor asked.

"I don't know. Just…I feel funny?…I guess."

"You do look a little green around the gills," said Simon, pushing "Herbert" toward her side of the table. "Get it? Green around the gills?"

Gretchen sighed and rested her head on the table, an icy cold wave of nausea settling in her stomach.

"Are you going to barf?" Simon asked. Gretchen nodded slightly, although she knew very well that she had absolutely nothing to speak of to throw up.

"Well, would you like to take off early, then?" asked Professor Reid. "I'm sure Simon will let you borrow his notes."

"Yeah, sure," agreed Simon, still focusing intently on the dead fish.

But Gretchen had already missed one-too-many classes and besides, it was almost 7:00 anyway. "No, um, I think I just need to get some water," she said.

Professor Reid nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. But if you change your mind and want to leave later, let me know."

Gretchen nodded, but kept her head down. Getting up was just too much work. Then, Simon loudly cracked his thumb knuckle and she was so disgusted that she clambered to her feet. Blood rushed to her head and tiny, white sparkles danced in front of her vision. Her knees and ankles gave out and she collapsed.

Although Gretchen definitely didn't ask, a few of her classmates couldn't resist telling her everything that had happened while she was unconscious. And she was sort of glad she had been unconscious because everything that had happened was so beyond-excruciating she wished she could still drop the class without getting an F for the semester. The first thing was that she smacked her forehead on the table, but she already knew this because of the gash and ugly, purple bruise that had taken weeks to fade away completely, regardless of how much cover-up she applied. The second thing, which was even more embarrassing, was that Simon had started crying, allegedly because he thought it was somehow his fault – although she had no idea what gave him that idea. "She said she wasn't feeling so great," Simon whimpered. "I didn't think she would actually faint."

Professor Reid assured him that this kind of thing happened at least twice a semester during dissections, which was why he kept a supply of smelling salts in the lab. And then, he couldn't resist making her unfortunate situation a learning opportunity for the rest of the class by asking if anyone could identify the chemical make-up of smelling salts (which Gretchen was pretty sure was ammonia and something else). But then the smelling salts didn't work right away and everyone in the class started freaking out (aside from Professor Reid, who kept saying: "give her a few seconds").

The sharp, burning smell jolted her awake and she sat up so quickly she slammed the back of her head into a table leg. "Ow," she mumbled.

"Hey, welcome back," Professor Reid said, smiling. "We all thought we lost you there for a second."

"Yeah," said Simon, tearfully, kneeling down beside her. "Are you okay?"

Gretchen put her hand to her forehead and felt something warm and wet. "Oh my God!" she shrieked. "Oh my God, am I bleeding?" The room spun, her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes started to roll back.

"Gretchen!" the professor shouted sounding genuinely worried for the first time. "Stay with us, here, okay? Don't pass out again! Look at me!"

Gretchen shook her head quickly and met his gaze.

"Did you eat anything today?" Simon asked.

Gretchen tried to think, but her brain felt sluggish. "Yeah, of course I did. Probably. Oh, wait. Actually, no. I like totally didn't have time."

"Yeah, your blood sugar's probably low," said Simon, smugly. He was a pre-med student and had already gotten an early acceptance to Harvard Med School, despite his penchant for using medical terms like "barf" and "green-around-the-gills."

"Plus this is a really long class," Professor Reid conceded. "Next semester, I'm definitely not going to schedule it this way. You're probably fine, but you might want to have it checked out at the hospital."

"I could drive her there," said Simon suddenly.

"WHAT?" Gretchen asked.

Professor Reid nodded. "Good idea. Thanks, Simon."

"No, really, that's okay," Gretchen said quickly, "I'll…um…I'll go to Student Health tomorrow – for realizes." Then she was embarrassed for saying "realizes," or at least she would have been if she hadn't already had the most humiliating night of her life.

Professor Reid nodded good-naturedly, but Simon folded his arms across his chest and glared. "Personally, as a pre-med student, I think you should go right now," he said in the most excruciating way one can possibly say that particular sentence.

Somehow, Simon had ended up getting his way (which, Gretchen suspected, was probably because she was still such a wimpy pushover) and they spent nearly half-an-hour getting hopelessly lost on the way to the hospital. Gretchen continued to embarrass herself by crying nonstop the entire time – which was impressive, even for her. Because now she was always, always, always going to be remembered as the girl who fainted in biology, not even because cutting something open was gross, but because she was hungry. Simon was, surprisingly enough, nice enough to not tell her to shut the hell up and offered her a dirty, used handkerchief from his glove box – because of course he did.

But that wasn't even the end of it because once they finally got to the hospital, things got even worse, especially after the nurse was barely able to insert the IV and couldn't quite wrap her head around the fact that no, Gretchen not anorexic; she was just busy – and stupid, apparently.

Nearly an hour later, Regina came rushing into the hospital room. "Oh my GOD!" she said breathlessly. "Your lab partner just texted me and said you passed out in class. What happened? Are you okay?"

Gretchen could not fathom how or why Simon had Regina's phone number and, frankly, the idea of it was a little creepy to her. As soon as she saw Regina, however, she broke into fresh tears. "E-everyone thinks I'm a pathetic freak," she wailed instead of answering either of Regina's questions. "A-and the nurse thinks I'm anorexic even though I'm like so not! And now she's probably going to call my parents and I'll have to leave school and see a therapist and maybe go into treatment like Karen! And then I'll, like, fail everything because I can't even drop classes anymore – even though I'm probably going to fail everything anyway. And everyone is always going to remember me as a stupid, anorexic freak and they're going to tell every single person at the school about it." She stopped to take a breath. Gretchen had to hand it to Regina. She was still listening intently and sympathetically.

"Aw, Gretch," said Regina, suddenly giving her a tight hug. "I'm sure it can't be THAT bad. I'll bet by next week, everyone will have forgotten all about it."

Unfortunately, Regina was wrong. Everyone had absolutely NOT forgotten about it one week later. Professor Reid was, surprisingly, nice enough not to mention it. Gretchen's classmates, on the other hand, were more than happy to rehash the whole thing. Apparently, Oberlin was an even lamer place than Gretchen had realized, because no one had anything better to talk about than her hospital visit and rumors had been zipping around campus all week. Aside from the obvious accusations of anorexia, people had been going with everything from diabetes to a stroke to the really obscure notion that Simon had somehow roofied her and had tried to rape her on the way to the hospital.

Worse than any rumor, though, was Simon himself, who Gretchen realized to her great dismay, had somehow decided he had the biggest crush on her ever despite paying almost no attention to her at all pre-fainting-in-class/hospital-visit. Apparently, smacking her head and crying hysterically in the car had turned him on somehow. And this turned out to be the most embarrassing part of the whole ideal. Because Simon would just not stop asking her how she was feeling or if she was okay. He'd even started texting her about it.

She looked down at her phone, expecting to see the typical "RUOK?" message. To her surprise, however, Simon's text said "where are you?" Where am I? Gretchen thought to herself. Why the hell does he want to know that? Then suddenly, it came to her and her blood turned to ice. They were supposed to go over their lab notes. How could she have forgotten? Not driving Naomi and company to the Halloween Benefit at the Animal Shelter was one thing, but completely spacing out on something for class? What was the matter with her? She was beginning to wonder if she had gotten brain damage from hitting her head on the table when she passed out. "Super sry!" she texted back to Simon. "Totally forgot! On my way!"

Almost immediately, her phone buzzed. "RUOK?" Simon wanted to know.


	5. Drowning on Dry Land

Chapter Five: Drowning on Dry Land

Regina was completely perplexed about how she had ended up on the street outside of North Shore High. Hadn't she just been at lacrosse practice seconds ago? Marianella, who had for some reason accompanied her to North Shore, materialized out of thin air and charged forward, her lacrosse stick slicing through the air. Regina knew very well what was about to happen and tried to dodge out of the way. Somehow, though, 250-pound Marianella was twice as fast as she was. As Marianella swung, the lacrosse stick transformed into the bus – normal-colored this time, but much taller than in real life – and slammed into her, causing her ribcage to burst open like a seed pod.

Normally, this would have been the part where Regina woke up, but it seemed the combination of two Oxycodone and Ambien were doing a bang-up job of keeping her under. She found herself lying on the concrete and was surprised at how little pain she felt as she slowly stood up. But then suddenly, something was very, very wrong. She couldn't breathe no matter how hard she tried, nor could she feel her pulse. As soon as she looked down, she realized what the problem was: a huge gaping hole in her chest – not bloody, just hollow, like a dank cavern. Her tattered lungs, it appeared, had been torn out by the lacrosse stick/school bus hybrid and were lying haphazardly on the ground. Regina knelt down next to them, but wasn't sure what to do from there. She certainly couldn't put them back in herself; were there doctors that specialized in reattaching lungs? And where was her heart? She glanced frantically around the asphalt, but couldn't find it.

Regina's cell phone buzzed loudly and she sat up in the dark room, shaking. Even though her lungs and heart were back where they were supposed to be, she still couldn't catch her breath. She had clearly been lying on her bad side because her ribs throbbed as if they were being continually pounded with a hammer. She quickly grabbed her phone off the nightstand. No one had called, but the phone was low on battery. It was almost 3:00 in the morning, but Regina suspected she would not be getting back to sleep. She also knew she couldn't just lie awake staring at the ceiling until 7:00, so she tiptoed to her desk so she wouldn't wake Gretchen up and turned on her laptop. She didn't know why exactly, but she had to write this dream down. The computer was slower than usual and Regina was growing impatient. She grabbed her Writing 101 notebook as it was closest and one of Gretchen's sparkly pink pens and hurried into the study lounge – a place she usually avoided because it was almost guaranteed that she would have to make awkward small talk. It was dark and empty now, though, a little eerie with the autumn breeze ruffling the curtains. She hurried through the description of her dream, not caring at all about her handwriting. And once she was finished with the dream, she continued writing until her hand was sore and the sun had risen.

By the time she got to Writing 101, Regina was feeling the effects of her mostly sleepless night. Her head pounded sharply in rhythm with her bruised ribs (which, she kept telling herself, she was going to have checked out by a doctor at some point) and her limbs were heavy as sandbags. She had taken nearly every over-the-counter pill she had that morning, but it seemed obvious that the combination of Aspirin, Tylenol and Ibuprofen wasn't nearly strong enough. She laid her head on the desk, hoping that Drew wouldn't notice.

"Okay," Drew said, ten minutes before the end of class. "Let's all get our journals out and swap with someone you haven't worked with yet."

Regina was suddenly wide awake and her blood turned ice cold. Were they supposed to have written something for today? Obviously she had the recap of her dream (plus everything else she had rambled on about), but there was no way in hell she wanted to show it to anyone – especially the wannabe social activists in her class who pretty much only wrote about their overly intense hatred for Walmart, Starbucks and TLC. She timidly raised her hand and motioned for Drew to come over.

Drew looked at her and his normally calm, cheerful face turned cold. "Let me guess," he said so sharply it sent tingles down her spine. "You couldn't find a partner again."

"No, it's not that," Regina said, even though, indeed, she was partnerless as usual. "I just…what I wrote for today is really private."

Drew rolled his eyes and stared down at her with such contempt she wanted to crawl under the table, curl into a fetal position and die. What was going on with him today? Sure, she was probably an extremely frustrating writing student, but today, he almost seemed to be taking it personally. "Regina," he said, throwing back his head in exasperation (in an act that was perhaps the most emotive she had ever seen him), "this attitude of yours is getting really, really old. I'm sick of telling you this every single time: the whole point of this class is to get personal," he sounded out each syllable of personal before continuing. "And if you wrote it in that notebook, then it isn't private either. It's been over three months and we still know zilch about you." He looked at the class for support, but everyone seemed content staring down at their desks or scribbling quietly.

Before Regina could react, Drew snatched her notebook off the table and began flipping through it.

"NO!" Regina shouted, reaching for the notebook. Drew glared and continued flipping through pages. He cleared his throat and to her horror, began to read aloud.

"Everyone at school knew who I was," he read quickly, "but none of them – not a single one – wanted to actually know me. And why should they? All my time was spent making their lives miserable – and for what? Acceptance? Power? Simple entertainment? Even now I have no idea why I acted the way I did in high school, but it probably has to do with some deep-seated, unchangeable flaw. I can't relate to people the way Gretchen can. I can't make them like me. Only fear me."

By now, everyone was staring intently at Regina. Her face burned and tears welled up in her eyes.

"I shouldn't even be alive; that bus should have killed me," Drew continued, but his voice faltered as he finally realized he had overstepped his bounds.

Regina stood up quickly and bolted from the room.

"Regina! Wait!" she heard Drew call after her. "Come back!"

He caught up to her outside the building, but she kept her head down and arms crossed and continued speed-walking to her dorm.

"Look, I'm really sorry," Drew said. "That was a bone-headed move. I didn't know, okay? It was stupid of me."

Regina spun around and glared at him, wanting desperately to scrape his bright blue eyes out of their sockets. "Stupid? No. Try 'mean'! How could you do that? What did I ever do to you?" Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn't even bother brushing them away.

"We should talk about this. Maybe in my office?" said Drew.

Regina shook her head and strode away.

Regina was well-aware that she should have been either attending to her lacrosse injuries or getting a few extra hours of sleep, but instead she lay flat on her back, staring angrily at the ceiling for who knows how long.

Eventually, she heard the key turn and sat up, startled.

"Oh," said Gretchen, sounding incredibly disappointed. "Sorry…I thought you would be in class? I could like totally leave if you want me to."

At this point, Regina was too tired to argue. "No, that's okay. It is technically your room too. I'd have to be a real bitch to kick you out. Not that I'm NOT a real bitch or anything."

Gretchen nodded shyly and entered. "I won't be here long," she said. "I was going to the library anyway."

"Jesus, Gretchen, what did I just say?" Regina snapped. "It's your room too, so I'm not going to kick you out. If anything, I should probably leave."

They both sat in awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably not even a whole minute.

"I'm sorry," Regina said. "That came out kind of mean." She paused and played with the edge of her quilt and looked at the floor. "I'm sorry about yesterday, too," she added.

Gretchen gave a very dramatic sigh of relief and smiled. "Yeah, me too. Well, um, so we're okay now?" she asked.

Regina shrugged. "I am if you are," she said. But she knew very well that she was not okay. She and Gretchen may have been okay, but Regina felt like she was coming apart at the seams like a cheaply-made stuffed animal. She wanted to scream or to rip up all her text books or to bash her head repeatedly against the wall, but she couldn't decide which to do and she didn't really want to do any of it in front of Gretchen. A strangled sob escaped her lips and tears ran down her face.

"Oh-my-God-what's-wrong?" Gretchen asked, somehow managing to make the sentence sound like one long word. "Are your ribs still hurting?"

"N-no, it's not that," Regina said (although, she had to admit, they were still quite sore).

"What is it then?" Gretchen asked delicately.

"Just that asshole Drew. I hate him!"

"Drew?" Gretchen repeated. "Who's Drew?"

Regina explained everything that had happened during Writing 101.

"Oh my God!" Gretchen said once Regina had finished the story, "that's horrible! What a grade-A douchenozzle! You should totally report him to the dean. Or at least to the actual professor of that class!"

Regina shook her head and hugged onto her pink pillow. When she didn't say anything, Gretchen continued.

"You know, this school is kind of like…I don't know…a little bit…retarded sometimes?"

Regina looked up in surprise. "Wait, what? I thought you loved it here."

"Yeah, well, I mean…mostly it's okay, but some of the teachers here are so weird."

"Tell me about it," Regina said, laughing dryly. "Maybe there's something in the water."

"My Modernist Poetry professor actually wanted to talk about how worried he was that all three of the poems I wrote about were about suicide." Gretchen said, sounding strangely cheerful given the topic of conversation.

"Seriously?" Regina asked, wrinkling her nose. "What the actual hell?"

"Totally serious," Gretchen said.

Regina smirked. "Professor Davis for Geography? You don't know her, do you?"

"Course not," said Gretchen. "I'm not taking Geography. That's so meh!"

"Yeah, well, don't take it with her. She never washes her hair and she always belches between sentences – I am so not even kidding."

Both of them laughed way too hard at poor Professor Davis' expense. "O-M-G," Gretchen said once she had regained her composure. "Professor Epstein? You know, the guy who teaches Buffy? Pretty much the only character he likes is Spike and if you say anything even slightly negative about him, Epstein gets all sad-face, like he's personally offended."

"Chh," said Regina. "Dumbass. The show is called Buffy the Vampire Slayer, not Spike the Vampire."

"Right?" Gretchen looked down at her cell phone and sighed. "I have to get to Rainforest Bio," she said, rolling her eyes and sticking out her tongue dramatically. "Wish me luck."

"Ugh, Barf" said Regina. "Um, have fun with that?"

"Hmm, yeah. I can't promise I'll try, but I'll try to try," Gretchen replied, grabbing her sparkly Rio notebook – a fitting choice for Rainforest Biology, Regina had to admit. "Hey, y'know something?" she said suddenly, pausing clumsily in the doorway. "This is…like…the longest conversation we've had since we got here."

"Huh," said Regina, smiling slightly. "I guess it is."


	6. Breathing Underwater

Chapter Six: Breathing Underwater

Gretchen had been in a fairly good mood until she arrived at the Rainforest Biology lab after the lecture portion of class was over, only to be greeted by the familiar, stomach-ache-inducing scent of formaldehyde.

Professor Reid had announced it last week, but somehow, Gretchen had all but forgotten that today would be the first dissection post Herbert. She shuddered involuntarily and kept her gaze firmly on her notebook but she was well aware that Simon – and probably most of the rest of the class – was watching her. For the most part, everyone not named Simon seemed to have forgotten about the Herbert debacle, but this was definitely enough to spark everyone's memory.

Professor Reid paused before handing Simon their tarantula. "You sure about this?" he asked, a demented grin on his face. "Do I need to bring out the smelling salts again just in case?"

Gretchen felt her face flush. "No, I'm fine," she said quickly.

"Good to hear," chuckled Professor Reid, plopping the spider between them.

Simon moved it toward his side of the desk and looked at her warily. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?" he asked. Unlike Professor Reid, he sounded dead serious.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"Very funny. I think you know why you wouldn't be," Simon said excruciatingly. "I think it would probably be better if I did most of the cutting."

"Oh my God, Simon!" Gretchen whined. "That's beyond stupid! You know it wasn't even about being squeamish. Not even kind of!"

"Well, just to be safe," Simon said. Gretchen's breathing sped up and she felt prickly warmth course through her. She hadn't exactly been looking forward to chopping into the giant creepy-crawly, but this sudden chivalrous behavior from Simon was beyond embarrassing. Did he think she was some delicate Victorian-era damsel who would keel over and die if anyone looked at her the wrong way? Probably, she decided. And those damn smelling salts probably only added to this impression.

"No way!" she snapped, her voice much higher-pitched than she had intended. The two football players in the desk next to them turned and stared. She grinded her teeth together and tried to breathe calmly through her nose. "It had nothing to do with being squeamish," she repeated. "It was because I forgot to eat that week. C'mon, you remember."

"Well, did you eat anything today?" asked Simon.

"Yes!" she hissed.

Simon looked like he had been slapped.

"Look, I'm sorry," Gretchen said, trying to keep her voice light. "Just…I wish we could forget that happened. Could we do you think? Just forget it happened?"

"How come?" Simon asked, his face and tone of voice completely innocent.

"How come?" she repeated.

"Yeah, how come."

"Because," she paused for a second. "Because it was embarrassing, okay? I'm really embarrassed and it made me feel like…pathetic…I guess."

Simon looked slightly surprised. "Oh," he said, adjusting his glasses. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. I guess I could see how that would be weird for you. I just…" he looked shyly down at his hands and sniffled – was he actually going to cry? Gretchen hoped against hope that he was not. "I was worried about you," he said, his voice shaking. His face had turned red as Luscious Nail Polish. "But…yeah…we could…sure. Let's just forget it."

And weirdly enough, Simon was true to his word. He even let her do most of the dissecting work. And even weirder still, Gretchen started feeling something she hadn't felt since arriving at Oberlin. At first she couldn't put her finger on it, but as she gazed down at the tarantula's poison glands, she realized, to her surprise, that she was actually good at it. She somehow knew how to cut with perfect precision and where each tiny organ belonged – and she was interested - really, truly interested - in the insides of this spider. She even began to lose track of time and when she finally stole a glance at her cell phone at 7:45, she was actually disappointed that class was almost over. She had been struggling with the basics of just about everything in literally every other class/activity, convinced that she was destined to be a failure despite her efforts. Could it really be that she was wrong?

One of Gretchen's deepest secrets was that she had actually always liked spiders and other creepy-crawlies. Regina, by contrast, wouldn't even go into a room if a spider was on the ceiling. An even deeper secret was that she used to love to read her brothers' old Spider-Man comics even after joining the Plastics but hid them under her bed with the real spiders whenever Regina and Janis came over. Buffy may have been almost cool in a loserdom type of way, but Spider-Man was a whole other level of nerd.

"Hey," said Simon as they were about to pack up. "You're really good at this." She expected him to sound surprised – after all, how could a delicate little flower like her actually know how to dissect? But his tone sounded neutral and vaguely impressed. "Maybe you should go into biology."

"You think?" Gretchen asked, flushing slightly.

He shrugged. "I mean, I know you're just a freshman so you have awhile to decide and everything, but you seem to have a talent for cutting." Simon blushed profusely. "Oh my God. I didn't mean it like that!"

"Like what?" Gretchen asked, genuinely confused.

"I mean…like…not like you're a cutter. Like a self-harmer or anything…" Simon took off his glasses and wiped them anxiously.

"Uh, no. I never thought that's what you meant."

"Oh," said Simon. "It's just…I thought maybe you…I mean after you fainted from not eating…"

Gretchen thought she probably should have been at least partially offended by this, but she couldn't help but feel some compassion for Simon and his stammering. "Oh, no," she said quickly, jumping in to rescue him. "No, I really didn't do that on purpose. It probably seemed like it, I guess…" She shrugged and sighed heavily. "It's just been an all-around rotten semester," she said.

He nodded. "I hear ya'. My first semester was tough too. I was super homesick. Well…" he said, trailing off. "See you next week."


	7. Drew from Writing 101

Chapter Seven: Drew from Writing 101

Regina's bus-related dreams had been getting consistently weirder over the past few weeks. Right after the accident, her subconscious had been content simply rehashing the incident almost verbatim, but apparently such a lack of creativity was no longer acceptable to her brain. This particular dream started out relatively generic. She had found a secret passageway that led from Oberlin back to North Shore High, which was kind of cliché as the two schools were often one-in-the-same to her subconscious. Regina and Gretchen had run out of towels after they tried to mop up a flood in the cafeteria bathroom and for some reason, Gretchen assumed they could get more at North Shore, but being Gretchen, she had some other stupid obligation with the Kawaii Buffy Glass Blowing Rainforest Club, so Regina agreed to get them herself. Also, Regina was much skinnier and the passage was incredibly narrow.

As soon as she crawled through the opening, which was in the freezer for some reason, the door clanged and locked behind her. Regina wasn't particularly claustrophobic in real life, but she figured anyone would be uncomfortable heading forward, especially since the further she went, the smaller the space seemed to become. Still, there was literally no going back, so she crawled forward on her hands and knees, her head brushing against the ceiling. Far in the distance, she saw a speck of light about the size of a dime and figured it must have been the opening – it was only so tiny because she was so far away.

When she got closer, however, she found that the opening had not grown. How the hell was she supposed to fit through that? Hot panic surged through her and her breathing sped up. Her nose and sinuses suddenly felt incredibly stuffed up as if they had been jammed full of wet cement. She desperately tried to breathe through her mouth and swallowed a mouthful of dirt and mildew. Had the tunnel always been under ground? She coughed frantically and tried to tell herself not to panic. Above her, the speck of light started to fade and more soggy dirt fell on top of her. "HELP!" she shouted at the top of her lungs and her throat seared with pain. The more she cried and screamed and panted, the smaller the space became, until she was lying flat on her stomach.

And then, suddenly, out of completely nowhere, a swarm of bees sped toward her. But, no, that wasn't right. They were not bees, but tiny bee-sized school buses that pelted into her. Despite their tiny size, each struck her with the weight of a normal sized bus. She cried out and one of the bee buses dove down her throat where it jammed into her esophagus.

"Regina! REGINA!" Gretchen was shaking her lightly. "You were shouting. Did you have a bad dream?"

"Yeah," Regina said faintly, still trying to catch her breath. She leaned her head back against the wall and groaned. "Sorry to wake you up. That was the scariest dream in a long time."

"No worries," said Gretchen, ironically sounding incredibly worried. "Wait in a long time? Do you have a lot of bad dreams?"

Regina nodded miserably. "Pretty much every night," she admitted, tears flooding her eyes. She cleared her throat. "It's no big. I'm fine."

"It is NOT no big!" Gretchen said, sitting down next to her. "You are NOT fine!"

"Gee, thanks," Regina said, smirking, but her voice caught in her throat much like the bee bus.

Gretchen did not laugh or even smile. "Pretty much every night for how long?" she asked firmly.

"Well," Regina said, her voice hoarse and small as she looked down at her comforter. "I used to have them all the time right after the accident, but then they kind of stopped. I don't know. I guess since we got to school."

"That's like, not okay!" Gretchen practically shouted.

Normally, Regina would have argued. Why was Gretchen getting so worked up about it? And why was it any of her business (aside from the obvious fact that a roommate with nightmares could impede her own sleep)? But Regina was too exhausted to argue. And besides, Gretchen was right. "It's so not," she said quietly. "It's not okay. I'm not okay."

Gretchen bit her lower lip. "Um…do you want something to drink? I could make hot chocolate?"

Regina did not want hot chocolate, but she also didn't want to go back to sleep, so she nodded slightly and moved to the couch, wrapping her quilt around her.

"Hm," said Gretchen, rummaging through the cupboards. "No hot chocolate? What kind of a college person doesn't have hot chocolate?"

"Gretch, it's okay," Regina said. "Wait, did you say 'college person?' What the hell is a college person?"

"What do you mean 'what's a college person?' A person in college!"

Regina snorted in spite of herself. "College student." She said.

Gretchen was no longer paying attention as she began searching the fridge. "Well, we have milk and strawberry syrup. Hot…strawberry? Is that a thing? Sounds like it would be gross, but maybe not. But if that was a thing, don't you think everyone would have heard of it?"

"I think they do make that," Regina said, but then thought for a minute. "Don't they? There's strawberry-flavored steamers. Is that the same thing?"

"Huh. Never thought of that," said Gretchen, shoving the milk in the microwave.

"Hey, remember in middle school when we had all those fancy milk flavors at lunch?" Regina said suddenly. "Like Root Beer and Blue Raspberry and Orange?"

"Oh YEAH!" Gretchen said. "Total ick. Accept maybe the orange one. That was okay." She got the milk out of the microwave, took a sip and made a face. "Ew. Nope," she said. "Definitely not going to happen. Tastes like drinking cotton candy. Try?"

She handed it to Regina. "Yeah, and looks like Pepto Bismo," she said.

Gretchen snickered. They were quiet for a moment and then she cleared her throat. "So, um…if you don't mind me asking, what was your dream about?"

Somehow, Regina found herself recounting not only the entire bee bus dream, but all of her previous dreams from that week as well.

"Oh my God," Gretchen said quietly when she had finished. "I-I'm sorry. That sounds really scary."

"I feel like I'm dead," Regina said quietly. She wasn't sure exactly why she said it, but now that she had, she realized that it was true. She had, in fact, been feeling that way for several years. "Well, I mean, not dead, I guess, but not alive either."

Although Gretchen had been relatively awesome for most of the night, she decided to take this particular moment to revert back into her normal, stupid self. "What, you mean like a zombie?"

Screw you, Regina almost said, but Gretchen beat her to it.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry. That was super tasteless. Sorry! Shit, I don't know what I was thinking." Gretchen said quickly, suddenly reverting back to her middle school Beta persona.

At this point, Regina didn't even feel like indulging her. She did, however, feel like further explaining what she meant. "Like, not trying to be morbid or anything, but I really should have died."

Gretchen gasped and her eyes widened. "No you shouldn't have!"

"No," Regina said dully. "I should have. Most people who get hit by buses do. But for some reason…I didn't. And it really seems like I should be doing something…more. You know, to make it up to the universe for being alive when I shouldn't be. But I'm not doing anything. I feel like I should be happy and like, celebrating and living my life to the fullest or some corny shit like that, but instead…" she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Instead what?" Gretchen asked. "Like what should you be doing differently?"

"I don't know," Regina mumbled. "Like something that proves I deserve to still be here, I guess." She was well aware about how horribly depressing that sounded and her heart suddenly ached in the very most literal sense.

"Well," said Gretchen after a moment. "The way I see it is if you're still here, then you must deserve to be here, right?"

"Huh," said Regina. "When did you get so smart?"

Gretchen snickered. "Guess this college degree's going to be worth something after all."

The next morning, Regina had an email from Drew. "Hi, Regina," it said. "I feel really terrible about what happened yesterday. It was extremely, EXTREMELY unprofessional of me. Could you please come in later today? We could meet in Professor Goldman's office since the study lounge is usually pretty packed. I am available most of the day, but could also work with later in the week, so please let me know. Thanks. - Drew."

"Oh my GOD! DON'T GO!" shouted Gretchen, reading over Regina's shoulder. "It's a trap!"

"Um, what?" Regina asked, wrinkling her nose. She had no intention of meeting with Drew, but the rather paranoid idea of it being a "trap" had never crossed her mind.

"He'll probably send you to a shrink or put you in the psyche ward," said Gretchen. "I'm serious. The professors here are STUPID paranoid."

"You think?" Regina asked, but then remembered what Gretchen had said about Professor Maxwell from Modernist Poetry. She nodded. "You know, yeah. He doesn't even deserve my time after this. He's a douche. I hope Professor Goldman fires him."

Gretchen nodded. "A douchenozzle even."

"An unprofessional douchenozzle," Regina added.

"And EXTREMELY unprofessional douchenozzle."

As she was walking to the library, Regina felt a now all-too-familiar sense of breathlessness. It swelled in her throat and crawled up her nasal cavity where it rested behind her eyes. How dare Drew accuse her of being crazy? Perhaps Gretchen was right and he did think he was doing her a favor by mandating a therapist – he was after all, a perfect Boy Scout/gentleman. Why shouldn't he add a new star to his sticker chart or feather to his cap or badge to his Boy Scout vest or whatever other stupid expression was currently in vogue by "saving" the crazy girl in his freshman writing class? The more she thought about it, the more Regina wanted – needed even - to talk to Drew and to hopefully rip him a new asshole while she was at it.

When she barged into the office, Drew and Professor Goldman were deep in conversation – hopefully about how Professor Goldman was going to drastically reduce Drew's paycheck for the month. Drew looked up, alarmed. "Regina. I didn't hear back from you." He cleared his throat. "I'm glad you could make it."

Profess or Goldman, who Regina had never actually seen in her life, looked her over with an unreadable expression.

"She's the one I told you about," Drew said. "Professor Goldman, Regina George. Regina, Professor Goldman."

Regina, not feeling like even attempting at politeness, narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, cool. Whatever."

"Well," said the professor, breaking his gaze. "I guess I'll leave you to it."

Before Goldman had even shut the door, Regina started in. "You have no right to do this to me!" she practically screamed.

Drew flinched, but nodded in agreement. "I know," he said. "You're absolutely right. That's why I wanted to-"

Regina cut him off mid-sentence. "I might be sort of a mess right now, but I'm NOT crazy and I do NOT need professional help. Yes, I'm in pain every single day, but I still come to your stupid class and do your stupid writing prompts and read my stupid classmates' stupid writing exercises and I don't know what else you want from me! You don't even know me, so how dare you judge me about my mental sanity? I mean, if anyone is crazy here, it's you. Just because I wrote something that was supposed to be PRIVATE does not mean I'm suicidal or-"

"Wait, hold on," said Drew, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. "What are you talking about? I don't think you're suicidal. I think maybe you're getting the wrong idea here. Look, please sit down. Your pacing is making me nervous."

"Oh, I'M making YOU nervous?" Regina snapped. She folded her arms across her chest and glared. "I prefer to stand. Why do you want me to sit down? So you can deliver some horrible bomb shell like that you contacted my parents about how worried you are or something?"

Drew blinked in surprise. "No, of course not. What gave you that idea?"

Regina's resolve faltered. "So…you didn't report me to the school shrink?"

"No," said Drew. "I would never do that without talking to you first."

Regina's anger dissipated, transforming into her more common emotion of embarrassment. "Oh," she said tightly. She sighed and sat down across from him, heat radiating off her face.

"Look, Regina…" Drew paused and fiddled with his pen. "I just really want to apologize. I feel horrible. I don't want to make excuses for myself, but this is my first time teaching and I think you all know I'm not very good at it."

Regina couldn't argue there.

"And listen, I know I've said this before, but your writing is exceptional. That's why I mentioned you to Professor Goldman."

Regina rolled her eyes. "Uh huh," she said.

"No, really. I mean it. I think you should consider going for a degree in creative writing. The program would be lucky to have you." He was quiet for a moment, waiting for her response. "When did you write this?"

"At three in the morning," Regina replied. "I don't know. I just kind of felt I needed to get it down on paper. Or something."

"Well, you have talent." He coughed lightly into his hand and took a swig from his Fiji water bottle. "Look, I guess I also wanted to say: I really can't imagine what you're going through and I'm so sorry that you're hurting."

Tears suddenly flickered in Regina's eyes, so she stared at the ceiling and blinked rapidly.

"I…uh," Drew continued, "I know this isn't the same thing exactly, but I had this really good buddy who died in Iraq a few years ago. And I sometimes feel guilty about it. He was such a good guy: funny, smart, charming. So why am I still here and not him? Well," he said after a moment, "I guess it's because he chose to risk his life for our country and I chose to get a degree in creative writing." He smiled and chuckled, but Regina didn't feel like laughing.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Drew nodded solemnly. "Yeah, me too. He was a good dude. I know this is super cliché, but it does get better."

"How do you know?" Regina asked, her voice shaking. "Having a friend die isn't the same as getting hit by a bus."

Drew shook his head. "No, I know. But since you're a writer, I really think getting some of these feelings down could help you process everything. It did for me. Okay…" he said awkwardly after another uncomfortable bit of silence. "I guess that's all I wanted to say. You're a good person, Regina and I think you're going to get through this."

Regina's heart melted like a Hershey's bar and she blushed. "What makes you think I'm a good person?" she asked.

Drew shrugged and slid her notebook to her across the table. "I can just tell. I have a good-person-dar."


	8. Mike from Modernist Poetry

Chapter Eight: Mike from Modernist Poetry

Gretchen really wished she hadn't bothered to come to the International Club's Pre-Thanksgiving potluck tonight. She had so many other things she could have been doing – among them emailing Professor Epstein to ask for an extension on her Buffy paper or getting an early start on studying for her Japanese final or thinking of ways to explain her grades to her parents. Instead, she sat alone near the wall watching her fellow International Clubbers dance to Katy Perry's "Firework," a song that Gretchen had always liked.

"You don't have to feel like a waste of space. You're original, cannot be replaced," sang Katy Perry, which was ironic because "a waste of space" was exactly what Gretchen felt like at the moment. Her throat ached from trying to hold back her tears, but she was fairly certain no one would even notice, let alone care, if she started crying. She had been striking out literally all night. Ami and Yuriko both had other plans (probably involving going to bed super early as the two of them commonly did) and Gretchen was beginning to realize that not only did she not really know anyone else in International Club, but she didn't really like them either.

She told herself it didn't matter. It was really just a bunch of stupid, little things – nothing worth crying over at all. But this was, of course, a total lie. It mattered; in mattered a lot. It couldn't possibly have been that every single member of International Club was a snotty asswipe, especially since they all seemed so friendly and open with each other. Therefore, the only reasonable explanation was that it was her fault for being annoying and stupid and boring and gross and ugly and worthless and bad and obviously completely unlovable.

The night had started off inoffensive enough as she stood around the punch bowl talking about finals with a girl she had never seen before. "So, where are you from?" Gretchen asked after a while, because that was the standard place to start in International Club.

"Ireland," the girl replied, snootily but without a single hint of Irish accent.

"Really? I wouldn't have guessed," Gretchen said. "You sound American to me." Actually, Gretchen had noted, over half of the club was comprised of Americans like herself. She wasn't even sure why she asked aside from lack of better things to say.

The girl stared at her blank-faced. "No, I'm Irish," she said coldly and added an exasperated sigh for good measure before turning her back and walking away. Gretchen didn't have any better luck repeating the question to another girl, who practically screamed "Venezuelan, you idiot, snuh!" (Well, she didn't say the idiot part, but her tone certainly implied it).

But the worst part of the evening occurred when she overheard a young Vietnamese man who went by "Cow Boy" (although, she later realized that it was probably spelled "Cao Boi") talking about a paper for Professor Maxwell's Early American Lit.

"Oh yeah. Professor Maxwell? I have him too. For Modernist Poetry." Gretchen said, happy to have an opening to insert herself into the conversation.

Cao Boi gave her a confused look. "Yeah," he said coldly in his thick accent. "I don't necessarily care."

Gretchen knew very well that she should have given up, but she boldly pressed on, mentally cursing her stupid penchant for rambling when she was nervous. "He's kind of a hard grader?" she meant to simply state, but ended up phrasing as a question.

"I wasn't talking to you," snapped Cao Boi. "Please don't barge into our conversation. I don't even know you." For some reason, the rest of the group laughed hysterically at this.

Gretchen's face flushed and she weakly mumbled an apology before slinking away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Why did she care? It was all so dumb, but Cao Boi's words, which reminded her a lot of Yuriko's recent "it's not my job to talk to you," cut into her like broken glass and sent her mind careening into a dangerously negative place. Sure, it may have seemed like just an offhand rude comment, but it somehow encapsulated her entire Oberlin experience. No one knew her. No one wanted to know her. No one wanted her around at all. She didn't even deserve the same basic curtesy that everyone else in the world was entitled to. In fact, when someone was openly mean to her, it was apparently hilarious to everyone else. Her emotional pain was nothing but a joke. She didn't matter to anyone. And she didn't belong. Anywhere. Ever. Katy Perry may as well have said to her: "you're not a firework, Gretchen. You don't matter."

"Hey, I know you!" a voice said and Gretchen looked up, startled.

To her astonishment, it was Mike from Modernist Poetry, who she had never imagined as the type to join International Club (or, for that matter, any clubs at all). Gretchen had always assumed that Mike was shy, but it now seemed like he was just a tall, dark and handsome man-of-few words dripping with confidence. Which was, of course, even sexier.

"Gretchen, right? I'm Mike," he said, which, of course, Gretchen already knew.

"Hi!" she said a little too enthusiastically. "I didn't know you were in this club."

Mike shrugged good-naturedly. "I'm not," he replied. "My roommate saw a flier up and neither of us could resist free food."

Gretchen stood up. "Yeah, cool," she stammered. "There's a lot of good food here." She suddenly felt very shy and couldn't think of what else to say, so she just nodded stupidly and smiled like a complete dork.

"Have you started the final project yet?" Mike asked, coming to her rescue. For Modernist Poetry, each student was supposed to write his or her own poem, memorize it, recite it for everyone and then write a paper analyzing the process. Gretchen was beyond not looking forward to it.

"No," she said and groaned. "Have you?"

"Yeah, sort of," said Mike. "But it's not very good."

"Well, I'm sure mine's going to be even more not very good!" Gretchen said and then mentally kicked herself for using such bad grammar in a conversation about an English class.

"I bet it will be good," Mike replied. "I liked your comment in class today," he added.

"Aw, really? Thanks!" Gretchen's participation style in Modernist Poetry (and most of her classes for that matter) had always been more about quantity than quality. Mike, by contrast, had only offered his opinion in discussion twice, but both times had been brilliant. "Um, what was my comment about again?" Gretchen asked because she honestly couldn't remember.

Mike thought for a minute. "Uh…I can't remember exactly. It was pretty insightful though." They both laughed nervously.

"Well, don't get used to it," Gretchen said. "Me being smart is a total sometimes thing. Actually, it's pretty much a never thing. You probably don't remember it because it didn't happen!" She laughed, but Mike remained quiet.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, looking at her intently.

"Oh, um…I don't know," Gretchen said quickly, her voice catching in her throat.

"Hey, there you are!" a familiar-sounding voice said and suddenly Simon appeared, carrying two huge bowls of Pho, both of which were dripping over the sides. "I don't know what this is, but pretty much everything else looked vaguely inedible." He handed one awkwardly to Mike and then looked at Gretchen in surprise.

"Hey!" he said a little too loudly, suddenly breaking into a huge grin.

"Wait, you guys know each other?" Gretchen asked.

"Yeah," said Simon, suddenly blushing. "H-he's my roommate. I didn't…I didn't know you two knew each other."

"Modernist Poetry," said Gretchen.

"Wait," said Mike, taking a huge slurp of Pho, "how do you two know each other?"

"Rainforest Bio," Simon said.

"Huh," said Mike. "You know, sometimes I really hate how small this school is, but it's always kind of cool when stuff like this happens."

They all laughed but then fell into an awkward silence. "Is that any good?" Gretchen asked, motioning toward the Pho. She knew Cao Boi had made it and had heard him rattle off a long list of ingredients that included sheep stomach and cow tendons.

Mike shrugged. "Well, it's free," he said and smiled.

"Could I get you anything?" Simon asked her, which made Gretchen suddenly worry that he was going to bring up Herbert-Gate again.

"Nah, I had ramen before I got here," she said. "And vegemite," she added. "Here at this thing," she clarified, "not before I got here."

Mike wrinkled his nose. "Vegemite? What's that? Sounds vaguely gross."

"Not really sure," Gretchen said, "but I wouldn't recommend it."

"It's Australian," said Simon. "Some kind of sandwich spread. Do you have a lot of Australian people in this group?"

"I don't think there are any, actually," Gretchen replied. For some reason, all three of them burst into hysterics about this, causing nearly everyone to turn around and stare (or, more accurately, to glare).

"Hey," said Simon suddenly, "you wanna come over and play video games? This is kind of boring."

Simon and Mike had a surprising combination of video games which included everything from Borderlands and Halo (which Gretchen kind of figured Simon would be into) to Guitar Hero, to Grand Theft Auto to Mario Kart to something called Disney Infinity, which seemed to basically amount to Disney characters beating the shit out of each other. After they had played several rounds of Mario Kart (which Simon won every single time), Guitar Hero (which Mike was surprisingly awesome at) and Super Smash Brothers (which Gretchen won – as Pikachu), they sat around talking about classes and clubs and Oberlin in general.

"Damn," said Simon after a while, "I'm still hungry!"

"That Pho didn't fill you up?" Gretchen asked.

"Seriously?" Mike chuckled. "That's how it's pronounced?"

"Yeah, watch your language, young lady," Simon added, smirking.

"Oh, I called it 'Foe' the first time Cao Boi made it and wow, was he ever not nice about it," Gretchen said. "'It's FUUUHHH not FOOOEEE', she said, attempting, but failing miserably, to imitate Cao Boi's accent. Mike and Simon laughed so hard they squirted beer out their noses and nearly peed themselves. Gretchen had to admit, she was feeling pretty good about entertaining them – especially after the nasty way Cao Boi had treated her earlier.

"Wait," Mike added after he had finally regained his composure. "Cao Boi? That's the dude's name? Seriously?"

"For realizes," Gretchen said. "No joke."

Sometime later, Simon went down to the dorm kitchen to make nachos, leaving Mike and Gretchen alone.

"So…Simon hasn't ever mentioned me?" Gretchen asked, as soon as Simon was well out of sight. "I mean…I am his lab partner."

"Yeah, he's brought you up a few times," Mike replied and electricity charged through Gretchen's blood stream and veins.

"Um…what does he say about me?'

Mike shrugged. "Not much, really. Just that you're really smart and good at all the lab stuff."

"Oh," she said, suddenly feeling overheated, but relieved that Simon and Mike had never discussed her fainting spell. "That's it? Wait, he said that I'm smart and good at lab stuff? That's kind of really random. It's probably just because he has a crush on me or something. He's obviously way better at it. I mean, I'll be lucky if I even get a C in Rainforest Bio at this point."

Mike looked at her for a few seconds. "Why do you always do that?"

"Why do I always do what?"

Mike chewed on his lower lip. "Why do you always say stuff like that about yourself?"

"Because it's true?" Gretchen said her voice small and weak. "My grades pretty much suck across the board." She felt like Mike's eyes were boring into her and that he could see all the way to her rapidly sinking heart. She cleared her throat, but couldn't think of what to say.

"Why don't you think you're smart?" Mike asked, ignoring what she had just said about her grades. Gretchen suddenly felt exceptionally weird as if she were somehow ice cold and overheated; clear-headed and dizzy; completely exhausted and wide awake all at once.

"I just... " she said. "I just feel like everyone knows what they're doing and who they are and why they matter except for me," she said. "Like, there's some secret to being a college student that everyone else has figured out and I'm just not getting it. Or more like, there's some secret to being a person that everyone knows and it should be really obvious but I'm just too…I don't know…too stupid to figure it out."

Mike suddenly grabbed her hand and her heart leapt into her throat. His was unexpectedly soft and warm. "Well," he said quietly, "if you haven't figured it out, then I guess neither have I. But, hey, at least you talk in class. I'm always too scared to say anything."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Mike said. "But you're just willing to give your opinion even if it's-"

"What? Dumb?" Gretchen asked, cutting him off.

"No," he said firmly. "Even if it's…I don't know…different. I think that's really kind of badass."

Gretchen gave a surprised laugh. "Badass?" she couldn't stop smiling. "That's not the typical word to describe me, but thanks, I'll take it. And also? I know you don't say much in class, but every time you did, it was SUPER smart. Really."

Mike flushed and the awkwardest of silence fell upon them. "So…uh," Gretchen said after a while. "Simon didn't tell you about how I fainted in class, huh? That's really, really cool of him."

"No," said Mike, clearly feeling more at ease. "Jeez, what happened?"

She shrugged. "I was hungry. Like not normal hungry like I-haven't-eaten-in-a-whole-week hungry."

"Y'know, I've had concussions at football practice. Never fainted before, though. What's it like? Is it scary?"

"YES!" Gretchen said. "But I think I got a concussion too. I didn't need stiches or anything, but that cut took forever to look normal again."


	9. Regina's Thanksgiving Break

Chapter Nine: Regina's Thanksgiving Break

"Regina!" Mrs. George's voice was dripping with perk. "Look who's here!"

Regina glared down at her Appletini and sighed. Her mother's annual Pre-Christmas party, which seemed to happen earlier every year, had just started and she was already looking forward to burying her head in her pillow and sleeping until it was time to get back to school. Hadn't she used to love these god damned things – preening for her parents' friends and holding court over her peers? But now, trying to answer questions about school ("yeah, it's fine," "classes are great," "yeah, I'm making new friends") was beyond exhausting.

Mrs. George was putting up a damn good show of not being mad at Regina anymore – if mad was what you could call it – but she had been stone cold all through Thanksgiving. Regina didn't know why her mother even cared about her lack of friends.

"Are you making any new friends?" was, in fact, the first sentence out of her mother's mouth when she picked her up outside the dorm. And just like that, any hope of having an even slightly okay family holiday evaporated.

"Yeah, sure," she said noncommittally and mumbled something about her lacrosse team.

The question came up again at dinner, but this time her mother tag-teamed it with her father and Kylie. Never throughout Regina's entire school career had her parents been so overly-passionate about her life. She was beginning to realize that she hated it.

"Well, Gretchen and I are friends," Regina said, stirring her now cold lobster bisque.

"I mean NEW friends," her mother chided.

Regina explained (she thought pretty well) that Gretchen actually WAS a new friend.

"How could she be a new friend?" Kylie asked snottily. "Haven't you known her since like kindergarten?"

"NO!" Regina snapped. "Fifth grade." She wanted to add that there was a huge difference between being friends with someone because you happened to be in the same social group and being friends with someone because you legitimately liked them, but she wasn't sure how to put it.

"I just don't understand," Angela said, looking mournfully across the table. "You used to be so good with people. What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," Regina snapped. "I'm just…busy."

"Everyone's busy in college," Regina's father chimed in brilliantly.

"Maybe they're all afraid of you," Mrs. George said under her breath. "Maybe they see you and think: watch out – bully!"

"Yeah!" Regina said, her anger rising. "Maybe they do! And maybe they SHOULD!"

"Regina, this is ridiculous," Angela snapped. "Stop being a victim!"

"How am I being a VICTIM? I just said maybe people don't like me because I used to be a massive bitch. I'm OWNING UP to it."

"Well," Henry said, reaching for the green beans, "at least you're still getting good grades. Isn't that right, Pumpkin?"

"Of course she's getting good grades. She isn't wasting her time on stupid things like socializing." Mrs. George glared at Regina until she felt her face getting hot and her pulse quickening.

"May I be excused?" she asked coldly and didn't even wait for their answer.

Angela grabbed Regina by the elbow and guided her over to, of all the horrible people that Regina could encounter tonight, Janis Ian and her mother. It took every bit of Regina's resolve not to pull away and bolt to her room.

"Go talk to your friend from high school," Angela whispered harshly, forgetting that Regina and Janis had stopped speaking to each other somewhere around the 7th grade.

"HEY!" shouted Janis, sounding suspiciously cheerful – perhaps she had had one too many glasses of champagne already.

"Hi," Regina said, grinding her teeth together.

They stood awkwardly while the two moms exchanged pleasantries. Actually, the whole thing amounted to Mrs. George and Mrs. Ian telling each other the details of their daughters' first semesters as if Regina and Janis weren't even there.

Janis had just declared a theater major and absolutely loved her drama clubs/art classes. She had a new boyfriend, too, who was every bit as theatrical as she was and was rooming with Damien and several other extremely fun-loving people.

"How about you, Regina? What are you taking?" asked Mrs. Ian, sounding ever-so-slightly bored about the whole thing.

Regina rattled off her classes to Mrs. Ian, who kept jumping in to tell them other things about Janis' beyond awesome first semester.

"She's been really engaged in her studies," Angela announced and Regina suddenly felt over-heated despite wearing nothing but a slinky dress. "She doesn't really get out much." For some reason everyone not named Regina found this hysterical.

"I'm…um…going to get some more punch," Regina said quietly, although what she really meant was she wanted to get some fresh air and scream until she was hoarse.

"I'll go with you," said Janis, smiling brightly and Regina wanted very much to bite something.

"So," said Janis. "No friends at school, huh?" she smirked.

Regina sighed. "Bet that makes you happy, huh?"

Janis shrugged. "Not happy exactly," she said. "But you do have to admit it makes sense. I mean, karma, right?"

"Karma?" Regina repeated. "Okay, then what do you call getting hit by a bus?" She was short of breath and suddenly felt that her dress was way, way, way too tight – like one of those corsets ladies wore in Victorian-era England. She had done her best to avoid Janis since Junior year not only because Janis was a hateful bitch, but also because it was sort of Janis' fault that she had gotten hit by that bus.

Although it didn't play much of a part in her bus dreams, Regina definitely remembered Janis' words on that fateful day. "I thought it would be really fun to ruin Regina George's life. I'm sorry, Regina. I guess it's because I have a big LESBIAN crush on you!" The entire crowd – with the exceptions of Cady, Karen and Gretchen - had cheered uproariously.

But where was Janis' retribution? Cady had to apologize to the whole school and be generally hated by everyone, but Janis basically got off scot free. And now, she was thriving in college too. Go figure.

"Probably hard without your Plastics, huh?" Janis said. "Now you actually have to get a personality."

This was like an ice pick in her stomach. Because, as much as Janis sucked, she was also sort of right. And Regina had failed miserably at "getting a personality."

"Hey," Janis said, nudging her. "C'mon, relax! It was a joke!" Regina realized how she must have looked. "So, no offense," she continued. "But this party's lame as hell. Damien and I are going to a Zoom Puff concert in a little bit. Wanna' come?"

Regina absolutely did not want to come and she was about to say so when Angela swooped out of nowhere. "That sounds like a great idea!" she squealed.

"I'm really kind of tired," said Regina.

Angela's nice/not mad mask evaporated. "Go to the concert with your friend!" she shouted.

"Mom," Regina said through gritted teeth. "She probably was just asking me to be polite."

"I was," Janis agreed. "It's probably not really a Regina activity anyway."

"Well," Angela said, an icy smile jumping to her lips. "What even IS a Regina activity anymore? You should go."

Regina thought it over and suddenly realized that as much as she wasn't interested in going to some punk rock concert with Janis, at least she would be away from her mother. She gave a tight-lipped smile. "Sure," she said. "Sounds cool."

Once Regina, Damien and Janis had arrived at the dank club, however, Regina really, really wished she was back listening to her mom gush about Kylie's soccer trophies. It was too crowded, too loud and people kept bashing into her still-aching ribs. She was pretty sure this was about to turn into a full-blown panic attack – maybe even worse than Marianella-Gate. Her intellectual mind knew very well that a crowded club wasn't a school bus and that bright yellow strobe lights weren't a school bus and that even the fake devil bus Zoom Puff had on stage was not a school bus. She knew all this, but the crowd was suspiciously similar to the hostile high school girls during Mrs. Norbury's pep talk and the yellow lights were exactly school bus colored. Her skin was cold and clammy, icy sweat dripping down her back, her throat felt tight and her chest felt like it was about to burst open.

She needed to get the hell out of there, but she couldn't find Damien or Janis anywhere. She thought for sure she was going to faint, but she knew if she did she would probably get trampled – things like that actually happened at concerts, she had heard. Someone ran into her again and she pushed him/her/it away and rushed out the door, sat down against the wall and rested her head on her knees just in time for everything to go pitch black.

She awoke to people laughing in the distance and realized that no one was paying any attention to her - probably because people passed out drunk so often here that it wasn't even worth noticing. And speaking of not noticing, she was also pretty sure Janis and Damien weren't missing her at all. Damien had been super enthused to see her, but that was how Damien always was to everyone. In fact, she couldn't believe that Damien and Janis were still friends. She stood up shakily, feeling disgustingly disoriented, and found her cell phone. No way in hell was she going back in there. Unfortunately, she could just imagine her mom's reaction if she called for a ride ("Oh c'mon, I don't care if you had a panic attack and passed out! Stop being a drama queen and go socialize or I'll stop paying your college tuition.") She would have called Gretchen, but she knew she was at Greg or Graham's house (Regina still couldn't tell those twins apart) for post-Thanksgiving dinner. Her only option, she realized with mounting dread, was calling a taxi. And taxies were, for all intents and purposes, just much smaller school buses.

The taxi driver smelled like vodka, old cigars and salami and he also happened to be a major asshole, which was unfortunate because almost as soon as Regina got in, she threw up all over the back seat. "College students," the taxi driver mumbled, rolling his eyes.

Despite the fact that panic attacks are supposed to take a lot out of a person, Regina didn't sleep at all that night. Her mind kept flashing to her mother's comments about her friendlessness, Janis' proclamation of how she purposefully ruined her life and icky, jaundiced yellow strobe lights. Gretchen often said that not sleeping is "gross" and wow, was she ever right. At 8 in the morning, Regina's entire body ached as if someone had taken every single organ and muscle and put them through a meat grinder. Her arms and legs felt magnetically attached to the bed so she couldn't move even though she had one of those weird stomachaches where she wasn't quite sure if she was hungry or nauseous and her bladder was achingly full (which made her wonder how her parents would respond if she pissed herself – she somehow didn't think they would take it very well). Unfortunately, the thought of getting up – or even moving a single inch – was somehow the most terrifying prospect in the entire world. It made her heart hammer and horrible dizziness descend on her. Every time she heard movement outside her door, her skin prickled and her heart nearly exploded.

"Regina, honey?" Angela called at around 11 am, "You going to get up?"

Her throat was dry as sand paper and the words caught in her throat making her voice barely a whisper. "Yeah, maybe later," she said.

As the hours ticked by, "maybe later" seemed like less and less of a possibility. Her family's voices wafted in and out. "She okay?" her father asked.

"I don't know," said Angela, sounding tense, "I think she's depressed again."

Seemingly hours later she heard Kylie's voice. "What's the matter with Regina?"

"She's not feeling well, honey," Angela replied softly.

At around 3 o'clock, Regina finally couldn't take it anymore. The temperature seemed to have dipped considerably and she was freezing under her two comforters. Luckily, her parents didn't hear her get up (or, even more likely, they didn't want to bother her for fear of actually having to deal with her less-than-perfect mental state), so she drew up a scorching hot bath and slid in before the water had even finished running.

She dunked her head under the blistering water and felt it burn her eye balls and the inside of her nose. How easy would it be, she suddenly wondered, to just stay down here – to just let go? Soon, however, her lungs ached and she came up for air, coughing and sputtering.

Kylie burst into the bathroom, her eyes wide as saucers. "Oh my GOD!" she gasped. "What are you doing?"

Regina suddenly realized how this probably looked to her twelve-year-old sister and she felt horrible. "Nothing," she said shakily, "I'm just taking a bath."

Kylie put her hand in the water and pulled back, alarmed. "This is WAY too hot!" she practically screamed. Tears rolled down her face. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"No, Kylie. Of course not," Regina said. She climbed out of the bath tub and wrapped her towel around her.

Kylie's lip quivered. "Mom said you're not feeling well," she said. "She said that you're sad."

Kylie looked so upset that Regina wanted to cry too. "I am sad, Ky," she said. "But I'm not that sad."

"Promise?" Kylie asked, suddenly hugging onto Regina tightly.

Regina nodded. "Sorry I scared you," she said. "But, yeah, I promise."

Regina's father handed her a huge mug of chamomile tea. Although she was wrapped in a heavy quilt, her teeth were chattering and she felt icy cold right down to her bone marrow. Henry placed his hand on her forehead and winced. "You're burning up," he said. "Kylie, would you mind getting the thermometer?"

Regina wasn't sure how, but somehow she had a 100 degree fever – maybe all that panicking ruined her immune system. Somehow knowing this made it easier to sleep, though, and the next thing she knew it was 10:00 am the next morning. Her dreams had been fragmented, but they all centered around the hospital and her family crying and the heart monitor a straight line. It somehow seemed a lot stranger and a lot realer than most of her other dreams. Feeling slightly stronger, she made her way into the kitchen where her parents were both sipping coffee.

"Morning, Princess," Henry said. "How're you feeling this morning? Any better?"

She nodded and sat down across from him.

"Coffee?" asked Angela, pushing a mug in front of her before even waiting for her reply.

"I guess," Regina said.

"You want something to eat?" Henry said. "I was going to make scrambled eggs."

Just the thought of it made Regina's stomach churn, but she thought she would probably feel less dizzy if she ate something.

"She doesn't want that," Angela hissed. "Yellow, remember?"

"Huh?" said Regina, looking up from her coffee.

"Oh, don't you remember?" said Angela. "When we first brought you home from the hospital, you didn't want to be around anything yellow." Now that she thought about it, Regina did remember that vaguely, although she had been on pretty heavy morphine pills. She used to love Kraft Macaroni and Cheese until she realized that it was exactly the same shade as a school bus.

"Um," Regina said, her heart pounding because snippets of her dream were still floating around her head. "Was I in a coma?"

"Nah," said Henry, laughing slightly. "You weren't asleep THAT long. It's only ten o'clock."

"No, I don't mean now. I mean…before."

Angela and Henry exchanged worried glances. Angela took a deep breath. "No, honey," she said. "You weren't in a coma."

"Oh, okay…that's good."

"But…" Angela looked at Henry again. She wiped her eyes suddenly.

"What's wrong?" Regina asked, not sure she really wanted to know.

"You were…well, you know…officially dead. Just for a minute."

Regina's stomach dropped. "Why didn't you ever tell me?" she asked.

"Oh, sweetie," her mother said, pulling her close. "We didn't want to upset you. And I guess I didn't…we didn't…want to think about it." She sniffled. "But we're so glad you're still here."


	10. Gretchen's Thanksgiving Break

Chapter Ten: Gretchen's Thanksgiving Break

Gretchen had thought about it long and hard and finally concluded that the best course of action was telling her parents about her horrible grades right up front – like ripping off a band aid or biting the bullet or any other random cliché. However, when her parents pulled up outside her dorm, her mother bursting with excitement, she just couldn't bring herself to talk about it yet. Instead, she explained her various club activities, everything she had learned in Rainforest Bio and Women's Studies and her potential "thing" with Mike from Modernist Poetry.

As her parents listened intently, they were practically beaming with pride. When had this ever happened? Certainly not when she first showed them her schedule, which got a pretty expected reaction of "what the actual hell?" What was she ever going to do with a class about Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Her father had asked condescendingly – so condescendingly, in fact, that Gretchen had actually dropped the class online and had only re-registered for it after Greg and Graham said they thought it sounded like the most amazing college class they had ever heard of.

But suddenly, Gregory Wieners, a man normally so reserved that she had been expecting a handshake from him when he picked her up from school rather than a hug, was all-ears about Buffy class. If Gretchen hadn't known better, she would have thought that her parents had actually missed her or something.

As it turned out, dinner was also not the best time to open up about her potential D's and F's because Graham, Steiner and Logan had come over. Although three-year-old Logan Murphy (an unfortunate name for one of the girliest girly girls Gretchen had ever met) was pretty much always the center of attention at gatherings due to her obnoxious, princess persona, she had been relatively normal and quiet that night. Therefore, Gretchen had been the undisputed star of the evening as her family listened, peppered her with questions, and even laughed at her jokes.

After she and Logan watched Cinderella, Logan snuggled up against her with thumb in her mouth, Gretchen fell asleep feeling both vaguely happy and also vaguely horrible, because she knew her grades would feel like a betrayal to everyone. Then again, maybe she could get away with not telling anyone yet and just letting it be a surprise over Christmas. Perhaps it would be worth it to keep everyone's pride intact. Because much as she wanted to believe her family loved her no matter what, she had always known their attention came with the condition that she didn't screw up. As her Sonata finally started to kick in, she had made up her mind to postpone a discussion about her grades until they showed up online. Cowardly? Maybe. But Gretchen knew that, at heart, she had always been a major scaredy-cat.

In her dream, Gretchen was in Modernist Poetry, although the class seemed a great deal larger than real life. This was, of course, a major understatement. She somehow knew that every single person currently alive on the planet attended this class – kind of like in her oldest fantasy of having a sleepover with everyone in the world. "Miss Weiners," Professor Maxwell said, "your poem?"

As she stood in front of the audience, which seemed to grow larger and larger by the second, fear welled up in her throat and she shook uncontrollably. She hadn't memorized anything. Not a single word.

"Well?" Professor Maxwell asked, his eyes narrowed.

"Um…" she said. She cleared her throat loudly. "Do you ever feel like a plastic bag? Drifting through the wind, waiting to start again?" Huh, she thought; had she really come up with that? That was a pretty damn good metaphor, actually! "Do you ever feel? Feel so paper-thin like a house of cards, one blow from caving in? Do you ever feel already buried deep? Six feet under, scream, but no one seems to hear a thing?" This, too, was pretty good. Maybe she wasn't Sylvia Plath or anything, but grave imagery was always a nice touch. "Do you know that there's still a chance for you? Cause there's a spark in you. You just gotta' ignite the light and let it shine! Just own the night like the Fourth of July! Cuz' baby, you're a firework! C'mon let you're colors burst!" She suddenly froze. No wonder her "poem" was so good. She hadn't written it at all! How did this never occur to her?

"Uh…" she said, suddenly losing every ounce of confidence. "NO! That wasn't what I was supposed to say! I did memorize my poem!"

"Well, may we hear it?" snapped Professor Maxwell.

Gretchen cleared her throat. "Um…okay…Salagadoo mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo! Put it together and what've you got? Bippity-boppity-boo!" Well, this certainly wasn't any better. It was just a bunch of nonsense words! Even Gertrude Stein or e.e Cummings probably wouldn't have been able to pull this off.

The class broke into hysterical laughter. "You suck!" shouted Cao Boi from the front row.

"No, hey GRETCHEN!" her father snapped. "That doesn't even make any SENSE!"

"I guess maybe I was wrong about you being smart," said Mike, shaking his head in disappointment.

"F," said Professor Maxwell.

Normally after such dreams, Gretchen felt a sense of relief that she didn't really have such a terrible assignment and/or class. Unfortunately, this dream had been suspiciously similar to what Professor Maxwell actually wanted them to do. And even more unfortunately, she had not written nor memorized a single syllable.

Because it was only 8:30 in the morning, she opened a new word document and glared at the screen. _I am not leaving this room_, she told herself, _until I have written this poem_.

But only a few minutes later, she was distracted by checking her current favorite website – Oberlin's Blackboard site with up-to-date grades. She wasn't overly worried about Rainforest Biology. If she kept up what she was doing, she was looking at a B- at the very lowest. Meanwhile, she was definitely getting an A in Glass Blowing because everyone got an A in that class. Scuba Diving was pass/fail and she already knew that it was a lost cause after she missed more than two classes. She wasn't even going to bother with the final, which to be honest, was somewhat of a relief.

This left Women's Studies, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Modernist Poetry and Japanese 101. If she pulled off an A on the final papers for Women's Studies, Modernist Poetry and Buffy, she could hopefully score a C in each of them (maybe a C- in Modernist Poetry, but although, not ideal, at least this was still a passing grade). Unfortunately, she didn't think anything could save her in Japanese 101, especially since they had an oral portion of the final. So very, very not Kawaii.

She stared at the grades as if she could will them to change through magic. Her heart pounded in her temples. _I am not leaving this room until I have written half of this poem_.

Gretchen wished she could crawl into her mother's bed and sob in her arms while Lisa stroked her hair and patted her back and told her that they all still loved her no matter what. She had seen Steiner do this for Logan the night before after the cat from Cinderella scared her. Unfortunately, Gretchen knew she and her mother had never had that kind of relationship – not even when she was Logan's age.

When Gretchen was younger, her parents used to call her their "surprise baby," which was just a nicer way of saying she was an accident. She had always gotten the feeling that Lisa resented her – at least to a degree - for forcing her to change diapers again when the twins were just entering their terrible teens (although, as far as Gretchen was concerned, Greg and Graham had never been hell raisers of any sort) and to go out trick-or-treating again when the twins entered college (although, Gretchen seemed to remember she usually went with her friends anyway) and to deal with ridiculous high school bullshit again when Greg and Graham were both planning their weddings (this was fair – Gretchen definitely had more than her fair share of stupid high school drama).

Gretchen rubbed her eyes and sighed. _I am not leaving this room until I have written one stanza of this poem_. But where was she even supposed to start? _I am not leaving this room until I have written one line of this poem_. She wondered if Mike had finished his yet. It was probably beautiful. She couldn't wait to hear him recite it in front of the class – especially since he rarely talked all semester. Although, she told herself, she would probably too nervous about her train-wreck of a poem to even pay attention, let alone enjoy it. Maybe she would volunteer to go first. Wouldn't that make Professor Maxwell grade her less harshly? Or would he just think she was overly-desperate/annoying? _I am not leaving this room until I have written one word of this poem._ "Shit," she typed and then slammed the computer screen down.

When Gretchen arrived in the kitchen, Gregory was sitting at the table, reading Science Weekly. "Hey, kiddo," he said – which was bizarre because her father had never called any cutesy nicknames. Regina's dad called both Regina and Kylie "Princess" or "Pumpkin" or "Sweetie," but Gregory was so boring and formal that the furthest deviation she could expect from her given name was "Gretch" and even that was uncommon. He looked up from his paper and smiled. "I made strudels. You want one?"

Although Gregory Weiners was the inventor of toaster strudels, he had apparently gotten up early to make homemade ones Grandma Olga style: flakey and light, filled with spicy cinnamon and apples and strawberries and drenched with melted sweet butter and bittersweet chocolate syrup.

"Okay," Gretchen said, although she knew very well that she didn't deserve it. Besides, her stomach was in knots and her throat was partially closed up. Gregory handed her the plate and sprinkled some extra powdered sugar over the strudel. He also poured her a mug of hot chocolate and even remembered the whipped cream. "Um…so, dad?" she said staring down at the plate. "I need to talk to you about something."

Gregory's smile disappeared and he slowly pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. "Okay," he said.

Gretchen's stomach leaped into her throat where it proceeded to engage in all kinds of acrobatic flips. "I'm kind of not doing that well in some of my classes," she said.

"What do you mean kind of not so well?" asked her father.

Gretchen sighed heavily. "Um…well…it's not all of them. I'm getting an A in Glass Blowing and probably in Rainforest Biology, too."

Much like Regina and Naomi, Gregory was a master of the silent treatment. He looked at her with stone cold eyes. "Okay," he said again finally.

"But…um…I've been so busy with clubs and friend stuff and well…I might be getting a less-than-awesome grade in Women's Studies." She wasn't sure why she mentioned this class of all things first – perhaps because it was objectively both the most difficult and most relevant. "And Japanese," she added quietly. "And Modernist Poetry." She figured it would be better not to bring Buffy into it at all. Or Scuba Diving, for that matter.

"What exactly does less-than-awesome mean?" asked Gregory. "Are we talking a B-?"

Gretchen stared down at her plate, her eyes filling with tears. No, she thought bitterly, a B- is going to be one of my higher grades this semester.

"C?" Gregory asked, his voice rising.

Gretchen just shrugged.

"D?" Gregory's voice went all high-pitched and got three times louder.

"Yeah," she whispered – or to be more accurate, practically squeaked – like a scared little mouse. "Maybe." There was no reason to tell him about her probable "F" in Japanese.

Gregory ran his fingers through of his perfectly gelled hair. "Gretchen, do you know how much your mother and I are paying to send you to Oberlin?" This was a slightly unfair question, given that they were practically millionaires. "This is unbelievable," he said. "Your brothers always got on the Honor Roll every single semester – while having full social schedules. And me? I worked full-time all throughout college and I didn't get D's!"

"I'm going to do better next semester. Really I am! Could you maybe not tell Mom?"

"Could I not tell Mom?" Gregory repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. "Of course I'm going to tell Mom. LISA!"

Gretchen's mother stuck her head through the doorway. "What's going on in here?" she asked.

Gregory stared at Gretchen. "I don't know. Why don't you ask your daughter?"

Gretchen sniffled and let her tears glaze the strudel.

"She's apparently failing some of her classes," said Gregory.

"Not failing," Gretchen said her voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't understand how she could be failing," Lisa told Gregory as if Gretchen wasn't even there. She looked at Gretchen, her lips in a straight line. "You always got straight A's in high school."

"College is harder," Gretchen said lamely.

"Look," said Lisa, rubbing her temples. "I don't know if you realize this, but failing a college course is a BIG deal. It's not like in high school. This is going to affect your GPA forever. And why are you just telling us about this now?" she added snappishly. "Shouldn't you have mentioned it last night when you were going on and on about how much you loved your classes?"

"Yes, why are you just bringing it up now?" Gregory agreed.

Gretchen sighed. Perhaps her initial instinct to tell them right upfront had been correct after all. "I um…I didn't know," she said, her heart sinking into her stomach. "I just checked my grades earlier this morning." Bad! She thought to herself. It was a ridiculous lie and wasn't going to protect her from their anger.

"Well," Lisa said after a long while. "You have to do a lot better next semester or you're not going to that school anymore."

Gretchen was well aware that she had gotten off pretty easy, all things considered. Yet, as the day went on, her parents decided to just ignore her completely as her mother prepared the dinner and her father watched football.

Gretchen sat at the table, staring at nothing. She knew very well that she should have been working on her poem – wasn't self-loathing supposed to be a great recipe for deep poetry? But she couldn't bring herself to get up from the table as Lisa chopped vegetables. "Could I help with anything?" she asked.

Lisa sighed. "Why don't you go watch the game with your father?" she said.

"Oh," Gretchen said, "okay." She had never actually watched football with her dad, but didn't she like football now? Since Mike was on the team?

Although Gregory was a huge football fan, he didn't show his enthusiasm openly. He looked slightly bored, even, as he sipped his sparkly water and stared at the screen.

"Hey, Dad," Gretchen said, perching next to him. "Who's winning?"

"Cowboys," Gregory mumbled.

"I know someone named Cao Boi," said Gretchen, wishing she could slap herself in the face. What an idiotic thing to say. "So…did I tell you Mike plays football?" Also a semi-stupid thing to say, but at least semi-relevant.

Gregory turned up the volume and Gretchen leaned back, her arms crossed. Her father inched away from her and continued staring blankly at the screen. Apparently Gretchen wasn't even close to all-cried-out yet, because tears welled in her eyes. She cleared her throat, which Gregory ignored. He turned up the volume again. Gretchen sighed much louder and heavier than she meant to.

"No, hey Gretchen," Gregory snapped. "If you don't like it, don't watch! Why don't you see if your mother wants help in the kitchen?"

"She doesn't," said Gretchen.

Gregory rolled his eyes. "Well, Graham, Steiner and Logan will be here in about an hour. You know Logan loves brown rice with Thanksgiving dinner." Gretchen didn't have the slightest idea why he expected her to know that, but who the hell wants brown rice at Thanksgiving? She wrinkled her nose. "Why don't you make for them? I'm pretty sure your mother forgot all about it," Gregory added.

"Oh, um, yeah, okay."

Lisa had run out to buy more pumpkin filling, so Gretchen was alone in the kitchen and alone with her thoughts. What the hell was going to happen to her if she didn't improve her grades and had to leave Oberlin? Just last week she would have thought it was for the best – it wasn't like anyone (aside from possibly Simon and Regina) would miss her or even realize she was gone, but now that she had Mike in her life (okay, maybe that was an overstatement at the moment), things had changed. And if her grades didn't improve next semester, what would that say about her? Lisa was right about Gretchen's high school grades – and if she thought about it, she had been just as busy in high school trying to fit in with the Plastics, but still managed to be almost at the top of her class every semester. Had she somehow lost her intelligence?

Suddenly, the smoke alarm blared and the room was filled with black smog. She quickly turned on the fan and moved the pan off of the stove, smoke filling her lungs. The rice had turned from brown to black and smelled vaguely like ammonia and smelling salts.

"What's going on in here?" Gregory's voice boomed.

"It…um…burned," she mumbled.

Gregory gazed into the pot. "God, Gretchen," he snapped. "Can't you do anything right?"

Thanksgiving dinner probably could have sucked a lot more than it did, Gretchen realized, but she still couldn't say she enjoyed a single millisecond of the experience – even when she got to tell Greg and his stuck up wife Natalie about Mike – because the whole thing just seemed tinted with resentment, frustration and barely-contained anger. After the night before being completely the Gretchen show, she had gone back into obscurity. She said a lot, sure, but it was all stuff like "wow, cool!" and "that is SO weird" and other reactions to whatever the rest of the family was saying. No one asked her any questions and the one time she tried to bring up school (that is, her relationship-ish thing with Mike), she was quickly interrupted.

Other things happened, too, she supposed. Grandma Olga ate her salad with a spoon, Lisa and Logan sang "Part of Your World," Natalie bitched at Greg for spilling a few specks of wine on her new cashmere sweater, Logan screamed like a banshee and threw an epic tantrum where she kicked her feet and pounded her fists all because her cranberry sauce was touching her mashed potatoes. Gretchen asked her mother to pass the gravy at one point and after pretending not to hear her for several minutes, Lisa practically threw it at her, so that it splashed all over her blouse. Luckily, it wasn't too hot – although, Gretchen reasoned, if it had been so scorching that it burned her, at least she would have gotten some attention.

Then, after dinner but before dessert (why there was a break between dinner and pie, Gretchen didn't know – this was highly unusual even for her family), they dispersed and Gretchen felt more out of place than she had at the Pre-Thanksgiving International Club Potluck. For a few minutes, she hung out in the kitchen with Grandma Olga, Grandpa Gustav and her father, who were apparently deeply engaged in a discussion about real estate, politics and finally the stock market (although her father did 99% of the talking). Gretchen did get to ask "so, why are we taking a break between dinner and dessert?" but she really, really just wanted to hear her voice again because she hadn't for awhile and it was making her feel horribly lost.

"Because everyone is full," Gregory answered, "and also, it's never an alright idea to complain."

"I'm not complaining," said Gretchen, "do you think I'm complaining? I'm not."

"I never complain ever," Grandma Olga said in her thickly intimidating German accent. "It just doesn't look good on a woman. You should be contented with your life. You have it so good. When I was your age, I had a lot to complain about, but I never did because what is the use in complaining? I taught your son that."

"My son?" Gretchen repeated, even though she knew Grandma Olga had fairly advanced Alzheimer's.

"She meant HER son," Gregory sneered. "Your father."

Meanwhile, Greg and Graham played pool in the basement. "Hey, guys, could I play?" Gretchen asked, even though she didn't know a single thing about the game.

"Oh, sorry, Squirt," Graham said, ruffling her hair (yes, he still did that). "It's a two-person game."

"You could keep score if you want," said Greg. "And then you could play the winner."

Gretchen nodded silently as her brothers laughed about Greg's recent visit with Natalie's family. Finally, she made her way up to the living room, where Lisa was reading _The Three Billy Goat's Gruff_ out loud to Logan, complete with different voices for each character. "Who's that crossing my bridge?" she growled in a deep, rumbling voice. "It is I! The smallest Billy Goat Gruff!" she continued in ultra-high-pitch, causing Logan to burst into hysterics.

Gretchen was sure that her parents used to read to her when she was little – what parents didn't? But she was also sure that Lisa never enjoyed spending time with her even a quarter as much as with her granddaughter.

Her heart sped up and a deep ache settled in her chest. What was wrong with her? Jealous of a three-year-old? Back in fifth grade when Gretchen first joined the Plastics, she had gotten in a weird habit of constantly thinking – and sometimes saying out loud – that her mother hated her. It was partly tweenage melodrama, sure, but she also often felt that it was true to her very core.

It was only ten degrees outside, but Gretchen went out and stood on the porch anyway - without a jacket or anything – because she couldn't cry in front of her family. But although her throat was filled to the brim, she couldn't shed a tear.

"Hey, Gretchen," her sister-in-law Steiner said, coming outside to join her. "We're having pie now. Aren't you cold out here?" she added, her voice so delicate that Gretchen actually did start crying so hard that she started shaking. "Oh, Sweetie," Steiner said, suddenly wrapping her arms tightly around her. "Are you okay? What's the matter?"

Gretchen wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Um…" she stammered and sniffled loudly. "I burned the rice."

"What?" asked Steiner.

Gretchen sniffled again and buried her head in Steiner's shirt, which probably made her seem even younger than Logan. "You know how Logan likes brown rice? I was supposed to make it for tonight but I b-b-burned it." She was a little worried about the force of her sobbing – she couldn't even breathe and she was sure she looked like a crazy person.

"Oh, Gretchen, that's alright. Don't worry about it," Steiner said. "Logan can have brown rice any time. That's not really what's going on, though, is it?"

"I can't do anything right," Gretchen said softly.

Steiner shivered. "We should go in," she said. "It's so cold."

Gretchen nodded. "I'm failing like…all my classes. Well, not failing and not all of them, but I'm just so…bad at everything."

"Man," said Steiner. "I remember feeling like that my freshman year, too." She patted Gretchen's back. "It gets better, though. Can we go in, now?"

The rest of the night was somewhat less eventful. The mincemeat pie that Grandpa Gustav had made tasted bland, but no one said anything accept for Natalie because Natalie was a bitch and also apparently drunker than a skunk. "Did you forget something?" she sneered, "like maybe the most important ingredient?" She laughed like a hyena until poor Grandpa Gustav admitted he'd forgotten the sugar. "Maybe you should make sure you're not getting demented, too, Grandpa!" Greg glared at her, shook his head and apologized that his wife was behaving like a raging harpy.

"Wow, Natalie, that's not very nice," said Gretchen because someone had to defend her poor Grandpa, who she had always had a soft spot for.

"I wasn't talking to you," said Natalie because apparently she and Cao Boi were founding members of the "Gretchen sucks and we're not talking to her club."

"Nat," Greg said sharply.

Then, Grandma Olga had poured gravy on her pumpkin pie, but that was practically a non-event.

After everyone had left, Gretchen lay awake, her mind on the repetitive track of "Can't you do anything right?" "Can't you do anything right?" "Can't you do anything right?"

_Can't I do anything right_?

And suddenly, she had the first line of her poem.


	11. Catching my Breath

Chapter Eleven: Catching My Breath:

Regina had never liked the idea of therapy. Thinking back on it, this made a degree of sense, as her parents were firmly in the why-would-you-need-to-pay-money-to-talk-to-someone-unless-there's-something-really-wrong-with-you camp. She knew this made them extremely old-fashioned, but for a long time, she had admired their anti-over-diagnosis/pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps stance. This was, of course, before she got hit by a bus. Even when Henry suggested therapy after discovering Regina's internet history mostly consisted of horrendous bus-related accidents, it came off as more of a taunt than anything else.

Therapy always made Regina think of her older cousin, Ricky, who allegedly had at least five different mental illnesses (although Henry was positive that at least four of them were made up by his histrionic parents). Every time his family visited (fortunately, an incredibly rare occasion as they lived out of state), Ricky came equipped with both a new set of problems and a new ineffective therapist. Regina's Aunt Lucille was, in fact, so devastated by all of her son's special needs that she herself saw a therapist every other week.

"I just don't get it," Henry had said on multiple occasions. "Lucille and I were raised in the same house with the same parents and I sure as hell don't need therapy! She needs to get the hell over herself! She's just being histrionic, that's all. All that's wrong with Ricky is that she coddles the poor kid too much." The ironic part of this statement, Regina later noted in high school AP psych, was that "Histrionic Personality Disorder" was a legitimate diagnosis. Regina hated to admit it, but she and Kylie had not been kind to Ricky either. In fact, "just don't end up like Ricky," was one of her family's longest-running inside jokes.

Post-bus-accident was definitely less of a laughing matter. Actually, she had adjusted normally once the sedatives wore off and determinedly took everything in physical therapy in stride – mostly because she wanted to be around to earn the Spring Fling crown. It was only after the Spring Formal that she had sunk into a deep depression and had become obsessed with bus accidents online. "I just don't want them labeling my daughter," Henry said in a harsh whisper after another day of Regina staying cooped up in her room. "There's nothing WRONG with her!"

"She seems depressed," Angela said.

"Seems depressed? Well, of course she seems depressed!" Henry replied, his voice rising. "She was hit by a bus! It's totally normal for her to be bummed out about it!"

During senior year of high school, Regina had been summoned to the guidance counselor several times to discuss her feelings. While the guidance counselor had listened intently, Regina noted that she hadn't done much else – she wasn't awful, but certainly not helpful either. Then again, Regina had to admit that she had hardly been honest because at that point, she really hadn't been ready to talk about it.

But she was ready to talk about it now. As she waited for her free therapy session with the health clinic's counselor, she nervously went through everything she was going to say. Of course, at the back of her mind, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was giving up, admitting weakness, disappointing her father and worst of all, turning into Ricky. Lots of normal people are in therapy, she thought to herself, glancing at the tense faces of other students in the waiting room. After all, Karen had a therapist. Then again, Regina suddenly remembered, Karen was Bulimic and had been since freshman year of high school. No matter how many times Regina reminded herself of this fact, she still couldn't manage to wrap her mind around it. Karen did seem to be improving, as far as Regina was concerned. Then again, she reasoned, how well did she really know Karen if she hadn't picked up on her vomiting habit after three years of Plasticshood?

"Regina?" Regina looked up to see a young woman with stylish hair and horn-rimmed glasses who couldn't have been much older than most of the students at Oberlin. "I'm Dr. Robinson. You can call me Heather, though. Or not. Your choice."

Regina followed Dr. Robinson/Heather into her office. "Um, how old are you?" she asked.

Dr. Robinson chuckled. "Damn, I get that one a lot. How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know," Regina said, annoyance beginning to bubble in her chest. "Maybe like twenty?"

"Eh, close enough. I am a twenty-something, so you're in the right ball park. Or at least I was last year." She shrugged good-naturedly. "But you know, age is just a number and all that. Or at least that's what all you teens and twenty-somethings like to say. It gets a bit harder to swallow once you reach thirty. Anyway, what brings you here today?"

Regina blinked. This was certainly not going the way she had expected. She knew she had a speech all planned out, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember any of it. "Um…well, I guess I just wanted to say first that I don't really like therapists."

Heather took a huge sip from her water bottle and nodded. "I get that one a lot too," she said. "Actually, do you want to know a dirty little secret?"

Regina wasn't sure that she did, but she gave a small nod anyway.

"I don't like therapists either," said Heather. "That's actually one of the reasons I went into it. Because I wanted to be different than all those therapists you see in the movies. I mean, don't get me wrong. I know a ton of really great therapists, but I also know we can be intimidating as hell. And you thought dentists had it bad," she clicked her tongue and laughed at her own joke, which was annoying, but also strangely endearing. Actually, she reminded Regina quite a bit of Mrs. Norbury. Oddly enough, Regina could never really bring herself to dislike Mrs. Norbury even post-assembly. She had always seemed so refreshingly real in comparison to the rest of North Shore's staff.

"But, anyway," Heather continued, "You're here today even though you dislike therapists and I think that takes a lot of courage."

Regina flushed slightly. "Thank you," she muttered.

"So what would you like to talk about?" asked Heather. "Please know that everything we discuss in here is confidential unless you seem like you're a threat to yourself."

"Well," said Regina. "I guess I just…I think I might be a horrible person." She suddenly worried that this admission would send warning signals to Heather. Doesn't calling yourself a horrible person sound the slightest bit suicidal? Thankfully, Heather didn't even blink.

"Hm, having just met you, I doubt that," replied Heather. "I mean, sure, there ARE horrible people out there, but 99.9% of the people I meet in this office are not in that category. Why do you think you might be a horrible person?"

Regina took a deep breath. "It's such a long story," she said.

"Well, then, I guess we better get comfortable," Heather said. "Luckily for you, I like long stories."

Regina explained everything – her former life as a bully, her current lack of friends, her nightmares, her beyond awful Thanksgiving Break and her tendency to read through blogs about all the amazing things every other bus victim seemed to be accomplishing.

"Aw," Heather said, nodding like a bobble-head. "So a near death experience."

"No, not NEAR death. An actual death experience."

Heather nodded again. "You know, I've always thought the worst thing you could tell someone who has been through a near-death – or an actual death experience," she clarified, "is that she should be living life to its fullest and not taking a single second for granted."

"Right," Regina said, relieved that at least one other person shared this view. "I mean, how am I supposed to do that when I'm afraid all the time and I can't sleep and I can barely even talk to anyone anymore without feeling like a total freak?"

"It seems like such a nice thought, doesn't it?" said Heather. "That once you've almost died – or died and come back, in your case – you have this new lease on life and you're just so grateful every single morning that you wake up because you're still here."

Regina cringed. "Yeah, it sounds nice. But it's bullshit. I feel like complete garbage every time I wake up in the morning and find out that I'm still here." Once again, she felt a flash of anxiety. Did _that_ sound suicidal?

"No, I totally agree," said Heather. "It's complete and utter bullshit! I've seen a lot of patients come through here who were in the army or who survived an over-dose – even a few suicide attempts and, yeah, some of them are grateful. But," she added, looking Regina straight in the eye. "There are a lot of other emotions too. There's a lot of guilt and anger and fear and depression and I think making people feel bad for not living life to the fullest only makes things worse."

"Yes!" Regina practically shouted. "That's exactly it! You sound like you're speaking from experience," she added, even though she knew therapists rarely talked about their own problems.

Heather, however, did not admonish her for asking personal information. She shook her head. "I've never been through anything like that personally," she said, "which is one reason I have so much admiration for people who did. Although," she added, "I'm definitely not immune to the whole YOLO thing. Like, don't get me wrong: I love my job and I love making a difference in young people's lives, but I still sometimes worry about not making every moment count. Like after work tonight? I'll probably just curl up on my couch and read People Magazine. And last weekend, I stayed in and watched old Survivor episodes instead of going sky-diving or something."

Regina chuckled and before she knew it, she was laughing so hard tears ran down her cheeks. She cleared her throat. "Sorry," she said.

"No worries," Heather replied, handing her a tissue. "I much prefer it when people cry from laughing than just well…crying."

They were quiet for a moment. "But, shouldn't I be over it by now?" Regina finally asked. "I mean, it's been almost two years."

"Everyone is different," Heather said. "I don't know. You might never get over it. You were hit by a bus, Regina. You were dead. You can't expect healing to be easy."

"I know," Regina said, "but it kind of feels like I only half came back to life…or something. I know that doesn't make much sense."

"It makes more sense than you might think," said Heather. She looked down at her watch. "We're almost out of time," she said and Regina felt surprisingly disappointed about this news. "But all Oberlin students get ten free sessions. I would really like to discuss this more, but it's up to you, of course."

Regina nodded. "This has been really helpful," she said. "Thank you. I don't know why I always hated on therapists so much."

Heather smiled wryly. "Well, you and me both," she said. "It was nice meeting you, Regina. I hope to see you again soon."


	12. Letting it Go

Chapter Twelve: Letting it Go:

Gretchen woke up with a splitting headache: the kind that literally pounded like a sledge hammer, thwacking away unwaveringly against her optic nerves. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, wishing desperately that she could skip Modernist Poetry. But skipping today would mean missing out on two things: first, the review for the final (which apparently involved matching obscure quotes with the poets responsible for them – this, of course, was in addition to writing/performing their own work) and second, seeing Mike again for the first time since the International Potluck.

With just the thought of Mike, her pulse quickened and nausea climbed up her throat. She shuddered, suddenly feeling as if her core body temperature had dropped several degrees. Hopefully, it was just a normal migraine. Gretchen was well aware that her typical migraines lasted for at least an entire day – if not multiple days - but a migraine was probably preferable to coming down with whatever Regina had over the break. Regina had been strangely vague about it, but she definitely looked pale and drained of energy upon returning to Oberlin and also had a fairly high fever. In fact, she was lying down when Gretchen returned to the dorm, which was why Gretchen felt so unbelievably shitty about the extremely loud fight she and her mother had gotten into on Regina's behalf.

The whole thing was made all the more bizarre by the fact that Lisa had said exactly three sentences to Gretchen during their drive back to Oberlin. These included a curt "no" when Gretchen asked to turn the radio on, a brisk admonishing about the volume of Gretchen's iPod ("you're going to have hearing loss by the time you're in your thirties!") and a rather unnecessary "do you know how many calories are in that?" at McDonalds (which, yes, Gretchen definitely did – and she had specifically chosen one of the most fattening items on the menu as a way to coat her insides with sickly, sugary goodness as a cushion from the pain). Yet, Lisa instantly transformed from Ice Queen to Ultra-Concerned, Overprotective Mother Bear the second she noticed Regina.

"Did you go to the hospital? Do you want me to pick you up any medicine? When was the last time you've eaten?" she asked in rapid-fire succession, apparently completely forgetting that Regina was not, in fact, her daughter. Gretchen realized with a sinking heart that Lisa was becoming practically an expert at pretending to be someone else's mother. First Logan and now Regina. Gretchen couldn't be sure whether her mother did this purposefully to make her jealous or if Lisa was simply oblivious to the hypocrisy of fawning over her non-daughters. And even more than that, Gretchen couldn't be sure which of the two scenarios was worse.

To Regina's credit, she answered each of Lisa's ridiculous questions calmly, which Gretchen thought was quite impressive given the fact that Regina had probably been fast asleep when they barged in.

"Mom, STOP it!" Gretchen had whined, her teeth clenched.

"I'm just showing some concern," snapped Lisa. "Aren't you at all worried about your friend? I think you're being really mean right now."

How had her mother twisted the scenario around so badly? Even though she knew Regina was sick, Gretchen couldn't help raising her voice. "I'M being mean? How am I being mean? If anyone's being mean here, it's you! Why don't you just leave her alone? She was obviously trying to REST! Can't you just mind your own business?"

"Gretchen, you're really embarrassing me right now," said Lisa coldly, grabbing her by the elbow and leading her out the door. Regina, meanwhile, watched quietly with an expression that somehow combined annoyance, amusement and terror.

"I'M embarrassing YOU?" Gretchen practically screamed.

"I don't think you should be talking to me that way after the stunt you pulled over Thanksgiving." Lisa said coldly.

Stunt? Gretchen thought. Her grades were disappointing, sure, but she failed to see how telling her parents the truth constituted a "stunt." It wasn't like she threw a tantrum at dinner like Logan. Was Lisa referring to the brown rice? Or how she had cried in front of Steiner? Regardless of Lisa's meaning, Gretchen could feel her anger wavering, only to be replaced with a sense of shame, embarrassment, and regret. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

After her mother had left, still in a state of fury, Gretchen replayed the fight over and over again. When was she ever going to realize that no matter what she did, she would never have a positive relationship with her mother? That fake cheeriness and small talk was the most she could ever hope for? She felt like she had swallowed a poisonous black cloud that choked her soul – a feeling that probably would have made for a nice line in her final Modernist Poetry project. Regina never mentioned the argument, but Gretchen wasn't sure if that was because she was trying to be nice or because she had been too sleepy and delirious to actually remember it.

Before trudging to Modernist Poetry, Gretchen took a few Aspirins, which did nothing to ease her headache. She also stopped at the book store and bought a Monster Energy Drink and a box of Krispy Kreme minis because ever since the incident in Rainforest Bio, she had been very diligent about keeping her blood sugar in check. Almost as soon as she let the glaze melt on her tongue, her migraine started to dissipate and she felt better. Then again, she reasoned, a sugar high could only last so long and she probably only had a few hours before the inevitable crash. Still, it was enough time to engage fully in class, talk to Mike, and hopefully address her growing pile of homework not for Modernist Poetry.

Unfortunately, Mike wasn't there. Then again, he was almost always several minutes late. However, fifteen minutes into class, Gretchen finally had to accept that it was probably a Mike-free day. On the other hand, when the class exchanged drafts of their poems, the girl next to her seemed impressed. "This is really, really good," she scribbled in the margins. "So dark and desperate. I really feel the emotions. Maybe work with the rhyme scheme in the last few stanzas, but other than that: solid! Reminds me a little of Ann Sexton." Although Gretchen wasn't sure that "so dark and desperate" was the direction she wanted to go, especially after Professor Maxwell had questioned her penchant for choosing to write about suicidal poets, she still felt a warm sense of hope swell in her chest.

Suddenly, while the entire class was quietly engaged in each other's work, someone knocked at the door. Professor Maxwell rolled his eyes and answered it. "Professor Maxwell?" Mike said in his sexy, Southern accent. "Um…I'm sorry I'm late."

Gretchen tried to covertly look at them through the corner of her eye. Mike looked frazzled, tense, but, being Mike, still remarkably hot.

Gretchen fully expected Maxwell to just nod and let Mike come in, as he usually did, but her asshole professor was apparently full of surprises today, the biggest of which that he somehow managed to out asshole himself. "Mr. Winchell," he said tightly and nearly every single member of the class spun around to look. "This is the twentieth time you've been late to class." This wasn't an exaggeration either, Gretchen noted. Since she was a Mike-fan, she definitely paid attention to when he came in. "And right now, you're really disturbing your classmates."

"I-I'm sorry," Mike stammered. "I had some family stuff."

"Well, if you're going to be twenty-minutes late, then why even bother coming to class at all?"

Because Mike doesn't like to miss class, snuh! Gretchen thought.

"I just thought-" Mike said.

And then, Professor Snape – a.k.a. Professor Maxwell - did the meanest thing in the history of mean things professors do to their students. "We're already finishing critiquing each other's work. If you had been here on time for once, you could have paired up with someone. Since you weren't here, though, why don't we all go ahead and critique yours together."

Students looked at each other and whispered behind their hands. "Come up to the front of the classroom and read it, Mr. Winchell," said Professor Snape/Maxwell.

Mike's face showed complete horror. "I-I don't think it's ready to read yet."

Professor Douchebag motioned for Mike to come to the front of the room. "You know, participation is a huge part of the grade in this class," he said wryly. "And we've heard from you a grand total of zero times all semester."

"Leave him alone," Gretchen said quietly. Everyone turned and stared at her. People hardly ever stood up to Professor Maxwell, especially not brown-nosers like Gretchen. Professor Maxwell glared at her and she felt her migraine start to return with a vengeance. Her heart pounded so hard and so fast, she thought she might faint. And fainting in class twice was definitely two times too many.

"Ms. Wieners, this isn't really your business," said Professor Maxwell, because, much like Cao Boi and Natalie, he had not "necessarily" been talking to her.

"Well," Gretchen said, her voice much stronger than she would have suspected given the terror pulsing through her bloodstream. "He just said he had family stuff. What kind of a teacher doesn't get that? And he has SO participated in class! Twice!"

Professor Maxwell rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, well excuse me, then," he said snottily. "I guess I was wrong. My mistake. Mr. Winchell has participated a grand total of TWO times over the course of the semester, which, as he and I have discussed in private on multiple occasions, is still far too little for a class where participation is 25% of the grade."

Gretchen was well aware that now was the time for her to step down and meekly offer an apology. It was true. She didn't know the entire story. But she also knew that Mike's two contributions had been far and away more valuable than any of her three-per-class bullshit comments. Didn't quality count for anything? "Asshole," she mumbled under her breath. The class snickered nervously.

"What did you just say?" asked Professor Maxwell.

Nothing…awesome…I'm sorry…These were just a few examples of answers Gretchen should have given had she been thinking about her own grades at all, but instead, she said so calmly she may as well have been channeling Regina: "I think you heard me."

"I…uh…" Mike stammered. "I think she just called you an asshole."

The class broke into shocked laughter.

"Well," said Professor Maxwell in a tone of voice Gretchen couldn't read at all, but was somewhere between fake shock and anger. "If you think I'm such an asshole, why don't you just leave?"

"Good idea," Gretchen said, pushing the desk away from her and standing quickly. She hurried out of the room and slammed the door.

Once she was in the hall, Gretchen didn't feel terrified or regretful like she had after her argument with Regina earlier in the semester, but instead completely drained of energy, like her legs could barely support her. Yet, she also felt calm, collected and surprisingly strong, despite her throbbing head and weak knees. It was so weird to feel two opposite things at once, but she was beginning to realize how weird and complicated emotions could be – perhaps she was getting something out of Modernist Poetry after all. She wondered if maybe it just hadn't sunk in yet; if maybe she would feel horrible about talking back to the professor later. And somehow, she felt certain that no, she wouldn't.

But now, she had to lie down – even if she had her Buffy paper to work on and Japanese to study.

"Gretchen!" Mike hurried toward her, his eyes flashing angrily.

She turned around in surprise.

"Why'd you DO that?" Mike snapped.

"Um, what do you mean?" Gretchen asked her confidence suddenly shattering like icicles. "He had no right to talk to you that way! He was being an ASSHOLE!"

"Well, you had no right to talk to HIM that way!" Mike shot back.

"I-I'm sorry," Gretchen said, suddenly sure she was going to throw up all over Mike's shoes. "I just thought-"

"Obviously you didn't THINK at all!" Mike snapped. "But thanks for calling attention to me like that. Now he's probably going to fail both of us! I didn't have any problem reading my poem to the class. Why didn't you just let me? Why couldn't you mind your own damn business? It had nothing to do with you. You don't even know me."

Gretchen suddenly couldn't breathe. Mike may as well have reached into her chest and ripped her lungs out. "Fine," she said after she-didn't-know-how-long. "I guess I don't know you. I thought I wanted to, but I guess I was wrong!" She turned away sharply and didn't start crying until Mike was well out of sight.

When she got back to the dorm, Regina was waiting for her. "Gretchen!" Regina shouted immediately.

Gretchen wiped her eyes. "Not now, Regina, okay?" she snapped. "I'm having a really shitty day. Could you please just leave me alone?"

Regina bit her lip. "It's Karen," she said. "She's in the hospital."


End file.
